


Falling Slowly

by Sconce_of_Inanity



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-01 10:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sconce_of_Inanity/pseuds/Sconce_of_Inanity
Summary: There are those who only find meaning through service to others, but responsibility and duty have weight, and the more you subvert your own nature, the less you understand what lies behind the face staring back at you from the mirror. First-person narrative from Tseng's POV, gratuitous verbal sparring, way too much introspection.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanons are always... a bit screwed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tinkering, think it’s better, but I can’t quite seem to inject the more compelling tone that developed organically in the later chapters once I stopped denying my inherent urge to try to be humorous whenever possible, no matter how inappropriate it might be. The opening is still too flat, which is no doubt contributing to low reader retention, although the weird style will always fuel that… And, yes, this is my thinly veiled “IT GETS BETTER!” entreaty, something I scoff at and think, “You should make it better NOW”. XD

After emerging from the vast atrium of the front entrance, I nod perfunctorily at the few WRO soldiers who acknowledge my passing as I make my way through the twisting labyrinth of their headquarters, idly contemplating why, with the surging popularity and prestige that has driven funding into the organization, the interior is kept minimalistic and gloomy. The muted lighting glints off of the metal walls and convolution of exposed coverings for electrical and mechanical devices that facilitate the numerous inner workings of the building, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere better suited to cramped spaces where the lack of basic decoration is a necessity.

_**And it’s completely at odds with the personality of the Commissioner. Does he actually enjoy walking these depressing halls? Or, does he realize just how fleeting any empire can be, capable of crumbling like a house of leaves with the right breath of wind, and sees it as a waste of resources?** _

I am well aware that I can ask the man personally when I reach my destination, and perhaps even receive an honest answer in return, but the musing and guessing at the reason for such an inconsequential matter occupies my increasingly drifting mind. My thoughts have always held a philosophical bent, but never to this degree, and while I am disturbed by the constant distraction within, it has the quality of drowning. The difficulty in preventing this mental wandering, and little significant consequences having come from it, has gradually caused my willpower to evaporate. Fortunately, I have trained myself nearly to perfection in terms of moving on autopilot and schooling my expression to confident neutrality unless I drag my consciousness back to the forefront. Only Reno has made an offhand comment that I seem more distant than usual, yet even my closest subordinate has little idea as to how true he spoke.

A cautionary voice inside whispers again that I need to address the issue, that I am a liability operating as I do now, and I press my focus onto the present with as much force as I can muster. The result is unnervingly transient with no danger to sharpen and hold my attention, and I surrender in the attempt until I arrive at the door to Tuesti’s office, unadorned and appearing no different to any other in the sprawling maze. Due to the imminent threat of interacting with who is possibly the most perceptive person on the planet, I manage to reclaim some of the eroded aptitude of my concentration and stand at relaxed attention, studying the symmetry of my surroundings while I wait. I search out the positions of various slight glimmers betraying the presence of cameras, which I know to be merely backups, decoys, to present targets for those that might try to disable them, and the main lenses are completely hidden from visual detection. 

The delay is not long and the door parts from the middle to retract into the walls with an inaudible sigh of warmer air from inside. I step through and approach the rectangular desk in the center of the room, ignoring the video feeds of the many monitors that cover the walls, and then fold my hands behind my back as I come to a stop directly across from the Commissioner. He lifts his gaze up from whatever has captured his attention on the laptop before him and offers a brilliant politician’s smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which is strange enough to immediately raise my interest. Normally, my former colleague, and now superior in all but official title, is one of the best at lying with his entire face. Something else must be wrong besides what has summoned me from the main Shinra bureau in Junon, where I conduct the majority of Turk operations, and I take in his careworn visage with detached critical assessment. We are of an age, but without the moderate Mako enhancements I possess, he appears much older, the lines of his face deeper, along with scatterings of silver through his immaculately trimmed goatee and at the roots of his stylishly wavy black hair. These signs of accelerated aging were not in existence only seven months ago during our last face-to-face meeting, and I feel a mild twinge of unease. 

Inclining my head respectfully and curving my lips up in a more reserved manner from his own, I greet him smoothly, “Good evening, Commissioner.”

“Good evening, Tseng. Thank you for coming, and I sincerely apologize for requesting your presence here when I know exactly how busy you are,” he responds with a tone that is almost glib.

_**Does he know, from afar, how utterly bored out of my mind I am with the mundane tasks that fall to the Turks now? Given his voyeuristic tendencies, I wouldn’t be surprised.** _

“You’re more than welcome, Sir. Anything that I can do to aid the WRO, I am eager to,” I deliver dryly with absolutely no sincerity and watch his eyes crinkle at the corners, amusement chasing away some of the tautness there. We both know my words are not true, that I still chafe at answering to anyone other than the President and will never fully accept the downfall of what was once the most powerful entity on Gaia or give myself over completely to this new world order.

“Excellent!” He actually claps his hands together and I fight back a frown at his exuberance, before he continues, “As you know from the report I sent, tracking down any concrete connections of whoever is responsible for the theft of master Materia from multiple vendors has so far been unsuccessful. Even Yuffie hasn’t uncovered anything.”

“Something I’m sure she’s handling in a mature fashion,” I comment in a faintly sardonic manner.

“Our head of espionage is the epitome of maturity and poise.”

I narrow my eyes slightly, but Tuesti simply returns my stare with convincing earnestness that I don’t believe for a moment, the very picture of innocence. The tension in my chest eases, and I am willing to file away his brief lapse of composure as nothing more than a symptom of too little sleep combined with a naturally stressful station, recalling similar behavior from President Shinra in the past. Even the changes to his appearance can be explained away with this, but I remain doubtful regarding the cause.

_**Rufus has always had us to confide in. Does this man have any real confidantes? AVALANCHE are supposedly his friends, but how much of his burdens does he share with them? They have never struck me as particularly close.** _

Apparently I am set on obsessing over a single innocuous gesture, but my intuition is usually sound and my annoyance is low at granting more deliberation of the man than is typical. I do consider Tuesti a friend, of sorts, or at least someone I respect. He leans back in his chair and I abruptly realize I have again lost track of time, the quiet stretching out between us and highlighting my failure to take advantage of an obvious setup to criticize my rival in the intelligence field.

I try to cover up my negligence by complimenting the ninja with unexpected praise, as though my thoughts had been centered on her, “Kisaragi has improved considerably in her conduct and professionalism.”

There is no noise in the room except for the whisper of cloth as he shifts his posture and examines my face closely.

“Are you alright?” His soft tone is colored with concern, and I bristle, angry that I have betrayed myself so soon or at all.

“I’m fine,” I snap, then heave a small sigh and let fabricated fatigue etch into my features. After a pause, I amend, “Tired. It’s been a long day.” I offer what I hope is an appropriately commiserating expression as I finish, “I’m sure you know that feeling all too well, yourself.”

He hums noncommittally, his gaze uncomfortably shrewd. “Yes, although I think we could both say that we have had long _lives_ ,” he replies ruefully.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you implying we’re old, Tuesti?”

Laughing softly, he shakes his head. “No, not you.”

There is no emphasis on ‘you’, but the wording is too blatant to ignore and I tease mildly, “Are you having a midlife crisis? Beginning to worry about your age and the encroaching specter of death?”

He laughs a bit harder but there is a sharp edge to it, and then he gestures imprecisely at himself. “It certainly shows, does it not?”

An unpleasant idea occurs to me, and I drop the pretense of humor, asking seriously, “Are you ill?”

“What? No, no, I am not ill.”

“Have you been receiving proper checkups on your health?” I persist.

“Yes, I have. I assure you that I am physically fit, but your concern is quite touching.” He presses a hand dramatically above his heart.

“Blood work? EKGs? A colonosc-“

“Tseng!” he exclaims with a wide grin.

“Such tests may be uncomfortable, but it is important to-“

“I know!” he interrupts again, then buries his face in his hands, and his shoulders shake with his muffled laughter.

As I watch him, my smile is faint but genuine, and I wait silently for him to calm himself, resisting the urge to point out that what I had said was not amusing enough to provoke this strong of response. When he finally raises his head back up, his warm eyes are shining with mirth and there is a becoming flush chasing away his pallor, a sight that causes my breath to catch unexpectedly. He appears a decade younger, at least.

“Thank you for that.” There is an openness to his countenance that I have rarely seen, revealing a deep weariness, and he drops his gaze from mine, as if ashamed, but does not draw one of his many masks back into place. He seems to be grasping for words, eyes darting aimlessly over his desk, and I hold my peace. Eventually, he glances up at me, then back down, and states softly, “I’m really glad you’re here, Tseng. I haven’t had much to laugh about recently, to be honest, and I always have enjoyed your company.”

And now another idea surfaces at his simple admission.

_**No, surely not.** _

Rumors have swirled rampantly around the leader of the WRO for many years, of course, as they always do when someone with great power and wealth is not married, nor has any significant other, but I had dismissed talk regarding his orientation, given its lack of importance.

“You work too hard,” I observe without preamble and his look is instant, direct, and incredulous at the pot calling the kettle black, but I don’t give him time for a verbal retort. “It’s getting late and we can discuss business tomorrow. Have dinner with me, Reeve.”

This effectively silences anything he had thought to say. His mouth closes without any utterance forthcoming, opens, and then closes once more, and I manage to keep from smirking, but only just. The number of times I have addressed him by his first name could probably be counted on one hand, and the significance is not lost on him, yet his puzzlement at my intentions is clear.

Something clicks into place in my mind as his confusion slides away and his expression becomes carefully impassive, and for the first time in longer than I would like to acknowledge, I feel a sense of purpose. This man is currently the cornerstone of the planet, the people, and all of the extensive plans in play for restoration would falter without his leadership and compassion. He has risked his reputation and fledgling foundation with his continued support of the Turks and the gradual reintegration of the Shinra Corporation, which he must suspect remained a threat. The gratitude I have for him is foreign and unwelcome, but undeniable in its strength.

_**I will not let him fail... If he is being assailed by more enemies than I know, I will find and neutralize them. If he requires something as simple as friendship, I will offer it. If he needs to unburden himself, I will be his secret keeper. And if he wants more than that… I am no stranger to seductive manipulation. Such attentions might give him strength.** _

My somewhat absurd internal declarations, which I would suffer significant torture before speaking aloud, mercifully don’t disrupt my focus on the present. Only the space of a few seconds has passed, and my surroundings stand out in sharp, startling clarity with the clean sensation of an overdue return to reality.

“We could discuss business over dinner,” he finally answers casually, the aristocratic charmer reassembling like armor.

“We _could_ , but I would prefer more… _pleasurable_ topics.” My insinuation leaves much to be desired, and I want to grimace at how rusty and trite my attempt is, but it does not seem to matter, if the way he inhales suddenly is any indication.

Even unbalanced, he doesn’t delay his reply and jokingly remarks, “That does sound good. It’s a date, then!”

I bow my head down slowly, as if in prayer or deep consideration, until I feel strands of my long hair come slithering from behind my ears. As the dark curtain frames my face, contrasting with the paleness of my skin in a way I know to be striking, I tilt my chin up to the side and cast a penetrating stare askance at him. His reaction is immediate and gratifying as he appears to stop breathing while his eyes widen and his lips part. Mingled sparks of both desire and alarm run down my spine, but I allow only the former to show.

“It is,” I confirm firmly with an absolute confidence I don’t feel.

When he swallows hard in response, seemingly at a loss for words, predatory anticipation begins to coil through my body.

_**There is no reason I can’t enjoy the mission, as long as I don’t lose sight of the objective.** _


	2. Chapter 2

“It is nice to sit in the front seat for a change.”

I flick my eyes briefly in Tuesti’s direction, and then return my sight to the street I am guiding the rental car down, scanning my peripheral vision constantly for any sign of danger. It wouldn’t do to have my charge injured on my watch, even if I am not officially guarding him and I have already spotted two tails that he has confirmed are WRO security.

“You could sit up front whenever you wanted to, _Commissioner_ ,” I admonish, stressing his title in the manner I once employed for Rufus when he was young and still adjusting to his growing authority.

“True, but it makes my drivers uncomfortable when I do,” he replies breezily, as if stating the obvious.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens, but my voice is devoid of inflection when I tell him, “You coddle your operatives too much. Force them into situations they are _uncomfortable_ with and they will adapt and become comfortable.”

“I am aware of that, but I have no wish to make their jobs more difficult than they already are.”

“Ever the conscientious public servant. Have you sacrificed everything for the WRO, even deciding on simple choices that you have every right to make?” My tone is caustic and the surge of bitterness that wells up catches me off-guard. I tamp the unwanted sentiment down viciously and quickly amend neutrally, “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

“You do have my permission to speak freely, you know. This is, after all, supposed to be a date.”

There is a wry smile in his voice and I want to turn towards him fully to read his body language, taking notice that he makes no attempt to deny my accusation with his gentle chiding, but I hit the turn signal instead and ease the vehicle around the corner of an intersection. I have little doubt that he regrets accompanying me now, as a torrent of excuses for why he could not go to dinner had started tumbling from his mouth back in his office until I firmly took his arm, pulled him up out of his chair, and escorted him to the underground garage of the complex. I am still in my standard blue suit and he in his long, zippered trench coat. Hardly romantic attire, but I had not been willing to risk his refusal or subsequent evasion had I managed to secure his agreement to a rescheduling.

_**Coercion is not a good start to any kind of relationship, except those based on fear and mistrust. Is this absolutely necessary or am I letting impatience override prudence?** _

I am not able to accurately judge the best course of action to follow because it has finally dawned on me that I don’t know the man well at all, merely the surface facts that are readily available to anyone with access to the internet. I can list where he grew up, where he has ever lived, every member of his family going back several generations, his extensive record of various technical degrees, the occupations he has held, but I cannot name a single thing as straightforward and casual as what he likes to eat or the music he prefers, nor the type of books he might enjoy reading for pleasure and not knowledge.

“What is your favorite food?” I ask and wince slightly at the banality of the question, but I fail to think of another way to begin the process of learning who he is as a person underneath his projected façade.

“I have many.”

“Such as?” I press when he doesn’t elaborate, unsure on whether he is deflecting or believes it an idle inquiry that doesn’t require any further explanation. “And you’re allowed to speak freely, too.”

He chuckles quietly and I can see the drumming pattern of his fingertips on his chin from the corner of my eye. “Am I? Hmm… The Bagnadrana Stew of North Corel is delicious and has such a unique array of spices I couldn’t even begin to describe the taste. There is a small diner in Icicle Inn that serves…”

I let his cultured cadence wash over me and memorize the dishes he mentions, which seem to flow endlessly from him, and if I had any uncertainty regarding his loneliness, it has vanished at the guileless joy he exhibits. I find myself wondering how long it has been since he last spoke of his personal interests to someone else. When I pull into the parking lot of the restaurant, he cuts off midsentence in his indulgent recollections of the food he has eaten, along with greater details about the places it was served at, which he had started adding once I began making quiet wordless cues of encouragement. The location he had suggested is nearly the entire length of Edge away from the headquarters, and I have the suspicion it was selected strictly because of its distance, with much of his previous reasoning for canceling centering on that fact.

I find a space, park, and then turn off the engine. After a brief scan of our surroundings, I direct my gaze to Tuesti, who is staring back at me with nonchalance. “I’m going to inspect the lot and walkway to the entrance. Wait here.”

“Of course,” he concedes with no hint of argument, and then murmurs the next under his breath, but my hearing is excellent and I can make out the words. “You probably wanted to throw yourself out the window listening to my inane chatter.”

“No, I like listening to you talk,” I reply and immediately exit the car.

Once I am satisfied that the area is secure, I approach within view of the Commissioner in the shadowy interior of the vehicle and beckon for him join me, my eyes sweeping the rooftops of the buildings around us as he does. If it bothers him that I am on alert, he gives no indication of it and we do not converse while we walk side by side at a brisk pace to the double front doors of the modest eatery.

Upon entering, one of his earlier objections is proven correct in hast. Silence ripples among the booths and tables in a wave, spreading out from where we stand as the patrons become aware of our presence. We endure the blatant stares, he with an amiable smile and I with cool indifference. A visibly nervous waiter steps up to us hesitantly and then begins to lead a trail through the aisles after receiving my request for a two-seater.

“Do you always get this much attention when you go out to eat, Tseng?” Tuesti asks softly.

I huff out an amused breath. “Yes, it is _me_ they are looking at,” I say as we arrive at a booth that is decently secluded and I make a mental note to tip the waiter generously.

He gives a considering hum and then a deliberate, probing stare the glides along my face and down the length of my body, before leisurely trailing back up my form to meet my slightly stunned eyes with heated intensity. I am trapped, motionless, beneath the weight of his gaze, but the moment shatters suddenly when he smiles brightly at me and murmurs, “They _definitely_ are.”

_**Cheeky bastard. I’ll have to make the tip large enough to bribe the waiter to keep his mouth shut.** _

My companion for the evening, who has now proven himself to not be above playing my game with a skill that raises my apprehension, slips into his seat, automatically leaving the side offering a wider view of the rest of the building open. The familiarity of the gesture, so similar to the smoothly operating dance of working with my fellow Turks, tightens my jaw. This is only one of many such actions that have happened in a short period, but I am focused inwards enough to register my emotional reaction to the behavior for the first time.

“Was that too forward?” he questions tentatively and I realize that I have remained standing when I glance down at him, my jaw still clenched.

“No,” I answer curtly, and then mentally kick myself and sit down across from him while loosening the rigidity of my features.

We order drinks and the waiter scurries off to fetch them. I study the faint traces of wariness behind Tuesti’s cheerful countenance and feel a baffling, nearly overwhelming urge to swear to him that he has no reason to fear me, but it would be a lie and I pick up the menu instead.

The conversations from the neighboring tables has resumed to that dull susurrus of overlapping voices and our attempt at small talk in the din is stilted at first, but soon grows into an enjoyable exchange of a less guarded nature. By the time the meals arrive, the Commissioner is speaking animatedly about a drunken escapade of his, and as I have never witnessed the man intoxicated, the story engages my interest far more than I had anticipated.

“And so there I was, completely naked except for Vincent’s cloak, staggering about vanquishing imaginary monsters with a makeshift Cerberus fashioned from duct tape and cardboard-“

“Please tell me this was caught on tape.”

“And he comes striding in, looking a bit less dramatic without his cloak, I must say, with murder in his eyes. Someone with a sense of self-preservation would have ran, as Yuffie did immediately, but I tripped over a bar stool and sat there on the floor giggling like a madman. Giggling! That was the exact moment any respect he held for me died,” he finishes the tale with a decisive nod and a sip of his water.

“That’s not true,” I insist mildly after a brief span of silent contemplation.

“I swear it is, every word of it! Unfortunately.”

“No, that Valentine lost all respect for you.”

He clears his throat uncomfortably and shrugs. “Perhaps, but I think he is still traumatized to this day at discovering that I was wearing his cape without a stitch of clothing underneath.”

We lock eyes for a few beats and then break into laughing mutual glee, and although the low rumbling issuing from my chest has a rough, disused quality to it that is almost painful, the sincerity in the outburst of mirth is refreshing.

“My new goal in life is to get you drunk.”

“No, oh no, you will _never_ get me drunk. _Ever_. Over my dead body,” he states with finality.

“Over your dead naked body?” I ask absently, and rarely have I wished to shove words back into my mouth more fiercely than I do right then. I rush on to explain, “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t have said that. Pretend I _didn’t_ say that.”

The nonplussed look that had stolen over his face begins to crumble and he covers his eyes with a hand. His voice is strained as he says, “I’m happy to hear you didn’t mean that. I try to be understanding of… proclivities, but I draw a line at necrophilia.” And then laughter crawls up out of him in a hearty eruption that causes nearby heads to turn.

I scoff lightly and take bites of my food, watching the storm across from me lessen into chuckles before fading into hiccupping breaths. He calmly and neatly wipes his streaming eyes with a napkin, places his elbows on the table, and then abruptly drops his head into his hands.

“Reeve?” I address him sharply, alarmed in spite of myself.

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he responds but shakes his head ‘no’ at the same time.

I wait, thoroughly confused now, and eventually he lifts his head from his hands and rests his chin to be cradled in his palms instead, sparkling brown eyes canting up to meet my own. With his uncharacteristically ruffled hair and reddened cheeks, the only description that easily comes to mind is ‘adorable’, but I force it away impatiently, because there is much more on display here, flickering emotions shifting too rapidly to be read.

His expression settles somewhere between wistful and pleased, and he asks, “Do you believe you will ever find happiness?”

“No.” That at least is a simple question to answer, if nonsensical.

He nods as though I have uttered a profound secret and not merely an inevitable truth of life. “I don’t think I will, either.” His gaze is distant and dreamy for a moment, before focusing back on me. “But this is pretty close, isn’t it? Sharing laughter and a good meal with a friend?”

I don’t like the look in his eyes, but I agree. I then pose the question I had been searching the right opportunity for, and this seems the closest I will get, “Let’s do this again soon?”

He hums in that affirmative way he is fond of and quirks his lips up at one corner in a crooked smile, before replying in a tone dripping with unmistakable insinuation, “I plan to do many things with you soon, Tseng.”

It is my turn to swallow hard and return his stare, which is now direct, confident, and more than a little wicked.

_**Just exactly who is manipulating who here?** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes… YES. MUAHAHAHA- The revisions are coming easier now, but they’re likely just the first of many, as I am never, EVER satisfied with anything I write.


	3. Chapter 3

The whirling of the rotary blades of the helicopter I sit in is a comforting, familiar roar in my ears. Members of an initial combat team, that had been sent to secure a bunker located in the northern region of the Mythril mountain range, fill the benches along both sides of the airborne carrier. The dark blue of my suit stands out in sharp relief against the backdrop of grey uniforms and red berets.

_**One step forward and two steps back is to be the theme.** _

The previous night had drawn to a close in an extremely unsatisfactory manner, Tuesti once again completely in the driver’s seat even as he sat on the passenger side while I drove him home, agreeable and polite and as real as any of the various lifelike automatons he builds. He had declined my offer to walk him to his door, swiftly bid me goodnight and got out of the car, striding to the entrance of the high-rise apartments without a single look back. Banishing how ridiculously offended I felt at the slight had been difficult, but I managed as I headed to the sparsely furnished condo I keep rented in Edge. I can easily afford it and my distaste of hotels has always been great, but now with the Turks an even more attractive target for terrorists and revolutionaries, two terms that are interchangeable in my mind, setting up proper security in a temporary residence is a nightmare. We had jested about the matter, but if the Commissioner is attacked in my presence, it will likely be _because_ of my presence, and I am not pleased with the sense of guilt that has curled up in what vaguely passes as a conscience.

_**I will not feel guilty for endangering him, not when he is maneuvering me about the board like a pawn. I was pledging myself to him within minutes, all because of a little artful fragility.** _

That I had fallen for it grates on my pride. The man’s greatest strength is not his remarkable intellect, but his ability to make others underestimate him despite the numerous manifestations of intelligence and competence. I am now convinced that all of the demonstrations of weakness on his part were fabricated, with the sole question remaining being what he actually intends to do with me, his innuendoes aside, and the possibilities are nearly endless and disquieting. I am tempted to operate under the impression he has offered that his aims are carnal in nature, simplifying the situation considerably, but to believe he has suddenly decided to start attending to his own personal needs would be foolish. This leaves me to ponder how I could possibly benefit him, aside from the obvious ways in which I am already used openly, and doesn’t involve betraying President Shinra and my Turks.

_**Is that it? Is the blade set to fall between the Shinra Corporation and the WRO? Is he testing the strength of my loyalty and seeking a potential flaw to exploit?** _

My loyalty is unwavering, there is no chance I will be turned knowingly against my own, but I have become careless in other ways, particularly of late, and I cannot allow myself to assume the timing is coincidental.

_**But would he do that? Would he actually try to make someone fall for him in order to control them?** _

Fear trails icy tendrils down my back and I shiver, glad that the cold of the dawn air over the mountains explains away the motion. I have long considered Tuesti to be of high moral fiber, especially given his habit of taking risks to do the ‘right’ thing, and perhaps he is in comparison to myself and many others, but all people change over time and circumstance.

_**If the stakes were high enough, he would. Power corrupts everyone. There are no exceptions to the rule.** _

I lack enough information to determine anything concrete on the matter and speculation can be treacherous on its own, so I will my thoughts to focus on the surface reason for why I am here, which is of no small importance. The disappearance of the Materia is alarming, not in the least due to a certain theory the specialists in the field have, that a large amount of mastered Materia could be combined into what would essentially be a Huge Materia. It is referred to as a theory in public, when I know for a fact that actual research and testing is being carried out in secret by a supposedly independent company, a front for the involvement of both Shinra and the WRO. This company was of course the first recipient of thorough investigation, but no breach has been detected. The very absence of evidence regarding an undertaking of this scale confirms that the WRO has been infiltrated by a hostile entity to an extent far beyond what I had previously suspected, and more than justifies my participation in person. I have several undercover Turks working within the organization, some even the Commissioner may not be aware of, but their efficacy is understandably limited by the need to maintain their concealment.

_**Tuesti is keeping his cards too close to his chest this time. I won’t settle for being a stalking-horse.** _

The pilot’s voice comes on over the intercom, announcing that we have reached the city limits of Edge, and a few cheers are called out and talk of impending off-duty activities rises to battle the mechanical thunder in the cavernous space.

* * *

When I arrive at the headquarters, I take it in stride that it is one of my own camouflaged operatives who informs me that the Commissioner wishes to meet with me in a different location within the compound and not his office. As the only constant has been attempts to throw me off balance, I gratefully welcome back the mantle of expecting nothing and everything. The Turk leads me to a door and departs without a word, and I enter into what appears to be a lounge, tastefully decorated and by far the most lavish room I have encountered in the WRO. If my guard had not already been up, it would have snapped into place instantly from the setting alone. Tuesti is reclined on a sofa, a pensive expression on his face, which may or may not be an affectation, and I walk to a similar couch across from him and sit down.

He glances up and flashes a warm smile. “This… should be a safe place to talk, for now.”

I nod to show my understanding that not even his office is free from prying eyes and that our privacy might still be compromised, and then launch into a concise report on failing to find any association between the stash of contraband Materia located in the Mythril Mountains and the stolen master Materia, something he has no doubt already received remote transmitted reports on.

“I had been afraid of that,” he responds when I conclude, as though this is the first he has heard of it, but then manages to surprise me by casually asking, “Is there a reason why you are wasting our time?”

“’Wasting our time’?” I repeat back at him slowly. “Are you dropping the charade, then? How would you like me, Commissioner?” I motion with my head in the direction of the floor before him and taunt in a sardonic tone, “On my knees there, with my lips around your cock?”

He laughs softly, actually _laughs_ , and my hands clench together tightly, the knuckles turning white from the pressure, where they are folded neatly in my lap.

“You’re mad at me.” He searches my face, still appearing amused.

“No,” I reply evenly.

“You are, and you have every right to be.” The amusement leeches from him and he looks away briefly, then back solemnly. “I apologize.”

“For?”

“You have no intention of making this easy, do you?”

“No.”

He is now visibly fighting to keep from laughing again and my ire skyrockets in response, that he would find my anger so hilarious. I am also angry _for_ being angry, when I honestly had not been until he insisted that I was.

_**He knows precisely how to push my buttons. I should run for Junon and not look back, leave his plots for me and this mess of his own making to himself.** _

But I can’t and I know it. My vows the other day may have been misguided but are no less true now than they were then, and jeopardizing my safety, compromising my ethics, having my actions influenced as surely as a puppet dangling from strings, is nothing compared to his continuing wellbeing.

_**But that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it, and I would cherish the opportunity to go back in time simply to slap that smug look I had had off of my face.** _

“I apologize for leaving you so abruptly last night. You deserved better.” He has mastered his expression and seems appropriately abashed. “It was more a matter of self-preservation, actually, as I didn’t trust what may have happened had I let you come up, or even… if I had given you the goodbye you did deserve.”

I smile unpleasantly after a few beats of silence and state impassively, “I don’t believe a word you just said and I’m not sure I ever will again.”

He flinches and recoils slightly, a wounded cast to his face that steadily fades to a careful blankness, before saying, completely devoid of emotion, “You’re perfect.”

With a sneer, I retort sharply, “ _I know_.”

Humming musingly, his eyes trace over my features almost idly, obviously deep in thought, and I wonder if he is truly struggling with some decision. When he focuses on my mouth, not straying long enough for it to become apparent, I resist the urge to scoff and roll my eyes. Even though I have steeled myself for anything I had thought him capable of, it feels like the wind has been knocked from me, like a physical blow, as he quietly voices another question.

“Would you enjoy hurting me?” He is still staring at my mouth and it is distracting now.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. _Damn you_ ,” I hiss the last, because that simple query has aroused me with a flash to my nerves that is sudden, unexpected, and most importantly, unwanted. I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“No, _I am_ ,” he asserts firmly, and I want to believe him. “I keep screwing up with you, Tseng, and have from the moment you arrived. I thought I knew what I wanted, that I was certain of what I was trying to do, but… either I don’t really know you… or I don’t really know myself.”

“Maybe both,” I respond and open my eyes to the sight of him nodding slowly. “I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t, but you did, and now I have broken that trust.”

I have nothing to say to that ambivalently spoken admission, because it is true and I have had enough of the games for the time being, as he has played with my emotions and my expectations too much in too short a duration. I have never been adept at controlling how I feel, only how I behave and respond to what I feel, and the difference between the two abilities is vast. My thoughts are chasing themselves in circles and I soothe them as much as I am able to, before returning my attention to Tuesti.

Finally, I breathe in deeply, hold the air in my lungs for a spell, and then gradually release it. My gaze had drifted down to his shoulder during my ruminations and I raise it back up to meet his own. “What is it you think you want?”

“Last night, at the diner…” He trails off, his eyes darting between my own. “You won’t believe this.”

“I _asked_ ,” I reprimand sternly.

“Yes, but…” After a pause, he shakes his head almost violently and continues, “Fine. What I want, or what I think I want, is for that to be real. That rapport, that comradery, that…” He makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “I want you to be my friend. A _real_ friend, that is.”

“You want me to be your friend,” I draw out slowly.

“Yes.”

“You were right. I don’t believe you.”

“I know.” He smiles sadly, but it is fleeting, and then the warmth and charm of his usual countenance reappears to radiate like magic. “So, may we focus on something we might both be able to agree on?”

“And that is?” I ask with open skepticism.

“Why, the fact that the WRO is currently coming down around my ears and what we can do to stop it.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re exaggerating.” I purse my lips and frown at him in mild disapproval.

“I wish,” he replies indifferently and then tilts his head towards the bar at the back of the room. “Would you care for something to drink?”

With a quick shake of my own in the negative, I otherwise ignore his frivolous question. “Tell me why your conclusion on the condition of the organization is so extreme.”

“I assure you, it is not extreme. If anything, it is an understatement for the current state of affairs.” He crosses his legs and begins to tap the fingers of one hand on his knee. The pattern of the quick movements seems vaguely familiar and I suspect it might be to the beat of a popular song, but I rarely keep up with music and fail to place it.

When it becomes obvious he is not planning to say anything further, I sigh. “Am I going to have to drag every bit of information from you?”

“You are distracting and I find that… my mind wanders when you’re around,” he murmurs absently, almost as if to himself.

“ _Please_ , I thought we were past that. Save your lies. There are more important matters to discuss.”

“Why are you single? You’re really very beautiful.”

I mentally count to ten, and then growl out, “Tell me what is going on with the WRO.”

“You are no doubt aware that any leader in a position of power such as my own is subjected to assassination attempts.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I have been receiving more than my fair share for quite some time, and I am beginning to believe I won’t be able to successfully avoid an untimely end much longer,” he says with simple aplomb.

The steady exhalations of our breaths are the only sounds I can detect in the room as I consider his words carefully, before responding, “I will have a secure location made ready for you. It won’t take long.”

“ _No_.”

“Commissioner-“

“ _No_ , I will not hide, and that is final.”

“You’re a fool.”

He chuckles. “Probably, but I have been taking measures to ensure, as much as I am capable of, that the transition isn’t too rocky.”

“You call your death a ‘transition’? And you won’t take solid action to prevent it? Are you suicidal?” I can’t keep the accusatory astonishment out of my voice. Even in my darkest meditations about the possible psychology of the man, that he might be fatally self-destructive had never occurred to me.

“I _have_ been taking solid action to prevent it.” The censor in his tone is unmistakable. “Everything I can possibly think of, except for leaving.”

“Your pride is not worth dying over, _Sir_.”

“It is not-“ He breaks off and groans in annoyance, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes and rub at his temples in a slow circular motion. “There is little point in trying to convince you of my reasons, but my staying here is nonnegotiable. Believe what you will, but stop arguing and _help_ me.”

I want to keep arguing, but I recognize that I would get nowhere at the moment. Waiting for when he is more susceptible to persuasion is a better choice, and I start plotting potential methods, not excluding outright abduction.

He blows out an exasperated huff of air, rolls his eyes up to the ceiling in apparent beseechment of the deities, and then refocuses on me. “You can _try_ to have me kidnapped, but if my attention is diverted by having to dodge _you_ on top of what I already have on my plate…”

“Fine.”

“Will you swear it?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Touché.”

Willing to temporarily entertain other techniques, I ask, “What about your Reeve-alikes? Have they lost their effectiveness as decoys?”

“’Reeve-alikes’?!” he exclaims in evident delight. “You call my robotic body doubles that?”

“It’s less of a mouthful than ‘robotic body doubles’.”

“Pity. I was hoping you enjoyed mouthfuls.”

My expression becomes pained and I glare at him. “You need to get laid.”

“I can’t argue with you there. Are you going to help me out with that problem, too?” He presses an index finger to his lips and his eyes twinkle with far too much merriness.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I answer truthfully. There is something about his seemingly infinite deceit that prompts me to be more honest than I normally would be.

“Would you really enjoy it? Are you attracted to men?” He appears genuinely interested in how I respond.

“Gender doesn’t matter to me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t find men unattractive.”

“That _still_ doesn’t answer the question. Have you ever been with another man?”

“Have you?” I snap back, irritated by this inane interrogation.

“No, but I find the prospect intriguing.”

“I don’t believe you haven’t.”

“We’ve been over this. If you are going to accuse me of lying every time I open my mouth-“

I interrupt with, “You _do_ lie every time you open your mouth.”

“That was uncalled for. I’ll have you know it’s actually very difficult to tell a lie with every breath. I’ve played that game with Yuffie and I usually lose.”

“This is ridiculous. Your robotic body doubles?” I inquire to change the subject back to the important issue at hand.

“Are being summarily executed at an alarming rate, and after I was unable to recover the remains of one, the detection of my real self has increased exponentially.”

“Ah…” I trail off, my mind immediately spinning with rapid thoughts at the implications of his disturbing revelation, momentarily rendering me speechless, and my unease climbs sharply.

“Yes, ‘ah’, indeed. I have been working on improving their flesh and blood characteristics, including using actual flesh and blood, but I am only one person and the technology is already far more advanced than anything else that exists, so it is all experimental. Experimentation takes time.”

“Time you don’t have.”

“Correct.”

Silence falls over us as we both fall into thought.

“Have you had any luck determining motive?” I ask, not expecting an affirmative reply but wanting to hear his deduction.

“No, but there has been little attempt to destabilize the WRO, itself, so I lean more towards a coup over its destruction being the goal.”

“So you’ve been keeping an eye on your nearest and dearest then?”

“I don’t have any ‘nearest and dearest’.” I give him a flatly eloquent look at this, and he tacks on with absolute confidence, “They wouldn’t.”

I make a mental note to contact the bureau immediately after the conclusion of the conversation with the Commissioner and have surveillance increased on AVALANCHE. “And the measures you have taken in case of a _transition_?”

“Not here.”

“Then where?”

He shakes his head repeatedly as he speaks, “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t.” With a sudden laugh bearing no amusement, he thrusts his hands into his hair and curls them into fists around the strands, a frantically frustrated gesture I have never seen from him before. “I am in way over my head, Tseng.” The gaze he directs at me is pleading. “Honestly.”

_**So am I.** _

* * *

Tuesti had excused himself shortly after his admission, and I had left the headquarters to conduct further investigation about the missing Materia and to cast out more nets to catch even the slightest whiff of discontent regarding the organization. It is impossible, with how many would have to be involved, for there to be nothing out there to find. People always talk. The only sure way to prevent slips is to dispose of all witnesses and there have been no recent mass disappearances.

_**It has to be someone regarded with unshakable and widespread loyalty, and if he wasn’t the target, he is the only one I would suspect was capable of this.** _

It is now late in the evening, and I stand outside the door to the residence of the man currently occupying my thoughts, pressing the intercom button repeatedly, as the first several polite pushes and waits had garnered no response. I am certain he is home; the intercom is also linked to forward to the countless personal communication devices he possesses. He would be able to respond no matter where he is, and I don’t like to be ignored.

Finally, his voice issues from the speaker on the wall next to the door with a terse, “Go away.”

I press and hold the button, replying, “I’m not going anywhere. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, which may possibly include explosives but definitely very angry, very _nosy_ neighbors.”

The door wrenches open and the sight I am greeted with makes me seriously question the wisdom of my decision to seek him out here. He is utterly disheveled, likely more so than he was right before he answered my summons, wearing a pale blue shirt that is only half-buttoned and framing a delicately toned chest with a dark fan of hair over the pectoral muscles that leads down his sternum to his waist. A trail I am following involuntarily with my eyes and I jerk them up to his face, which is of course smug.

“You didn’t ask if I found _you_ attractive,” I murmur softly and his expression briefly flashes with uncertainty before he steps back and presents a sweeping motion with his arm to beckon me in.

He closes the door behind us and I study the interior of his living room intently. It is modest in terms of space and decoration, the furniture I deem to be of the plain Gongagain style, with a smattering of potted plants and small sculptures spread about on various surfaces. The main draw, which is likely the same in each of the outward facing apartments of the building, is the floor to ceiling window that takes up the entirety of one wall and offers a breathtaking view of the city. I walk up to the glass and look out at the sprawling glitter of lights and sharp angles unfolding into the horizon, and against my will, I am awed, but not because of the beauty.

_**He built this. All of this. Maybe not with his bare hands, but in every way that matters, he built it.** _

After several minutes of consideration of both the vista and the recent past, which causes bittersweet passion to well up within me, I deliberately pull my darkened gaze from Edge and direct my attention unerringly at its creator. The strength and nature of what I am feeling must be plainly visible, judging by Tuesti’s reaction. His eyes are wide, staring at me as though he has been struck, and the lost, drowning hunger that radiates from him speeds my pulse. I take a measured, predatory step towards him and he immediately backpedals before turning away, his shoulders hunching defensively.

_**Is this really an act? Is he really that good? Does it even matter?** _

“Don’t do that.” I barely recognize the husky rumble that emerges from my own throat, so long has it been since I last heard it.

_**He is buttoning up his shirt. He should NOT be buttoning up his shirt.** _

He breathes deeply, seeming to steel himself, and then faces me again with an apologetic quirk to his lips. “I am sorry for giving you the wrong impression.”

“’ _Wrong impression_ ’?” I grind out and take another tense step forward, which he mirrors with a step back. “There is no _wrong impression_ here.”

Running a hand through his tousled hair, appearing more attractive than he has any right to in his rumpled, informal attire, he looks at me with contrite embarrassment. “I didn’t think you would actually be interested.”

“You thought wrong.”

“I see that now.” He holds his hands up, palms facing outward in a placating manner. “And I am sorry. I…” His eyes jump away, to the ground, to the sides, furtively, and then focus back on me. “I don’t want… a physical entanglement.” A short pause and he continues, “With _anyone_. It has nothing to do with you, Tseng. It is… something I can’t afford right now, and… I don’t think you can, either.”

I am briefly thunderstruck by the claim, but the confusion is quickly replaced with anger and I embrace it. “Don’t you _dare_ presume to speak for me, Tuesti,” I threaten with a growl to my words and stalk towards him, gratified when he retreats swiftly and collides hard with the wall behind him, flinching from the impact. I am able to loom over him aggressively, even though my height is not much greater than his, as he shrinks back further in response to my fury.

“Please don’t,” he sighs out scarcely above a whisper as he stares up at me, but the fear I expected to see is not present in his expression.

I reach up and trace my fingertips along his jaw with deceptively gentle pressure, lightly teasing the roughness of his facial hair, watching his eyes slide close with pleasure, and then I grab his chin forcefully and squeeze until he makes a soft, pained noise.

_**I want… I want…** _

I release him abruptly and back up several paces, my chest heaving with harsh breaths while I search franticly for control inside of myself. I find it, tenuous but there, and my voice holds a believable facsimile of steadiness when I say, “I didn’t come here for this. Compose yourself and then we’ll talk.”

He remains slumped against the wall, but the punch-drunk glaze over his features gradually clears as his blinks owlishly at me. He struggles and fails to speak a few times, before managing a faint, “Alright.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Why all the flirting if you didn’t mean for anything to come of it?” I ask and bring the mug I am holding up to my face, breathing in the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee but refrain from drinking any.

We are sitting across from one another at the island counter in his kitchen, a jarringly modern affair made up of white walls, burnished chrome cabinets and appliances, black granite surfaces, and a dark hardwood floor. Lights are hidden in alcoves around the perimeter of the ceiling, creating a diffuse illumination that never fails to remind me unpleasantly of hospitals and infirmaries. I suspect it is the original design of the place that Tuesti has decided to, for whatever reason, not modify with any personal touches.

_**A reflection of himself, perhaps? The warm, simple exterior of the living room, with this the isolated, stark interior?** _

“Take your pick of why,” Tuesti responds with little inflection, his hands curled loosely around his own mug as he stares blankly down at it. “To throw you off balance, for my own amusement, because I am lonely and do want you and you seem to enjoy it. It’s no hardship to flirt with a handsome man, but I’m so rarely allowed the pleasure.” He sighs softly. “Not without strings attached in some way, that is.”

“Feeling sorry for yourself?”

One side of his mouth twitches up slightly, but he shows no further reaction to my jibe. He has behaved in this despondent manner since our volatile interaction in the other room and I am quickly becoming fed up with his self-castigation. Regardless of whether he deserves the punishment or not, I can’t deny that it bothers me to watch him like this.

_**How long…? How long has he been this much of a mess? How has no one noticed?** _

As I examine the signs I have witnessed that point to his instability and cautiously accept their validity, I want to be angry with his supposed friends and devoted supporters, for their blindness and neglect, but I know they are not actually at fault. They have only seen exactly what he has allowed them see. I utter a clipped chuckle filled with sour hilarity when I realize that I can’t place the blame where it solely rests, right here in front of me, on a person damaged enough to have slowly but surely drawn the noose around his own neck.

_**The better question would be, why has he chosen to show the cracks in his armor to me of all people? Did he choose, or am I just the only one who has tried to see beyond? What is even real or fake in this?** _

“Care to share what you think is so funny? I can’t say I find anything humorous right now and I could use a laugh,” he mutters sullenly.

“ _You_ are what’s funny. Did you even, _briefly_ , consider seeking therapy before it got this bad, or did you just think you could handle it all on your own?” I regret the words once they are out in the air, because I apparently can place the blame where I shouldn’t. “Don’t answer that, Reeve.”

“I thought you thought I was a pathological liar, but now you think I’m depressed? Self-destructive? Insane, maybe?” he queries absently.

“I don’t know exactly what you are, but you’re definitely not well.”

“We’ve talked a lot about my state of mind, but what of yours, hmm? Are you the picture of mental wellbeing and stability, yourself?”

“No,” I reply easily, as the topic is one I have spent months, possibly years, reflecting on, even though I have taken no steps to remedy the problem in any significant manner. “I’ve been drowning inside my own head.”

At last, he looks up from the eternal mystery that is his coffee cup to meet my gaze. “And have you received therapy?”

“No.” A wry smile begins to curve up his lips, but fades when I continue with total confidence, “But I will.”

“You always were stronger than me, and much smarter in many ways,” he says gently, the fine lines tracing out from his eyes crinkling as he regards me with a muted sort of affection.

“I could argue with that, but no one is invincible, no matter how much we’d like to pretend we are,” I state firmly and then rise from the stool.

“Leaving so soon?”

Instead of answering, I walk around the counter and come to stand behind him, or attempt to, as he swivels in his seat to follow my movement, his expression carefully closed off once more. “Turn around.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“Snap your neck. Obviously, that has been my plan all along. _Turn around_ ,” I order in a low tone that usually brooks no argument, but he is now glaring at me mulishly and decidedly _not_ doing as he is told.

I raise my hand and he watches warily as I reach out to grasp his shoulder, but makes no move to evade as I rotate him towards the countertop until his back is facing me. When I place both of my hands on his shoulders, he jolts into an even tenser posture and I shake my head with silent exasperation. I flex my fingers a couple times and then set to kneading his taut muscles.

He inhales sharply at my touch and puts his hands over mine, gripping and trying to pull them off. “Stop. I told you-“

“This doesn’t have to be sexual,” I comment while I maintain a steady compress and release of pressure, before digging down roughly into a particularly stiff section at the base of his neck and he groans loudly, leaning into me. “You are familiar with the psychology of touching?”

“Yes, but-“ He breaks off and his breath hitches as I force him into a prone position over the counter and begin working further down his back. “There is _no way_ this isn’t sexual!”

I laugh softly and bend over him to purr into his ear, “ _Relax_ ,” and then straighten up as I resume the massage with greater diligence, drawing more involuntary, interesting noises from his slender body. My focus narrows down until it encompasses nothing but the feel of his flesh beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the way that with every caress he gradually, inexorably yields to me.

“It’s always about power, isn’t it?”

A few beats pass before the words of his quiet voice register in my awareness, so lost am I in tactile sensation, and I repeat automatically, “Power?”

“Having power over me like this. The Commissioner of the WRO, the leader of the people of Gaia, a _vaunted savior of the Planet_ ,” he spits out the last with scorn, and continues heatedly, “quivering in your hands like some lovesick pathetic fool, helpless to deny you _anything_. Does the thought of raping me _make you hard_? You could take me right here, right now, against my own kitchen table and I wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop you. Is that _turning you on_? Making me into your sacrificial lamb? Why stop there? Why not bruise my skin some more? Why not make me _bleed_ , make me _scream_ , make me _cr_ -“

One of my palms is now cupped tightly over his mouth to cease his tirade, but I don’t remember moving. My blood is pounding and the warm buildup of arousal has fled, leaving ice in its wake as though I have been doused with freezing water on the inside. “That is _enough_ ,” I grit out and then swear vehemently, “ _Leviathan_.”

He is quiescent below me, his back rising and falling far too steadily, calmly. Abruptly, I drag him backwards by my hold on his head alone and he scrambles to keep his balance, grabbing desperately onto my forearm with both of his hands to leverage himself upright, the stool clattering to the ground as he manages to gain his feet. I wrap my free arm around his waist and jerk him back flush against my body, cleaving him to the length of me from my thighs up to my chest.

Craning my neck down to put my lips next to his ear, I hiss furiously, “ _Does it feel like that is making me hard_?”

Time seems to come to a halt and stretch out like a thread about to snap as we stand pressed firmly together, both breathing heavily but out of sync from our shared exertions. When his head shakes slowly, back and forth, his soft hair grazing my cheek, I shove him away from me forcibly enough that he stumbles and catches the border of the countertop to prevent a fall. I advance on him immediately, giving him no chance to recover, and spin him around before pushing him violently into the jutting edge of the kitchen island, distantly taking note that he winces and his eyes tighten with pain.

I snarl into his upturned face, “This is _not_ healthy! _None of this has been healthy_! I can’t help you if you don’t stop trying to _break me_!”

He blinks up at me passively for a moment, and then tranquilly asks, “So this is my fault then?”

My hand rises without my consent, already clenched into a fist, and a vision from another time and place suddenly imposes itself over Tuesti’s form, a visage of achingly innocent beauty and brilliant green eyes brimming with a mixture of shocked hurt and fierce determination. I lurch backwards, forcing my arms down by my sides, and then without a word or glance in his direction, I walk out of the kitchen on legs that feel numb and uncoordinated.

Once I come to a stop in the center of the front room, I stare longingly at the door offering freedom from this madness, but I know that fleeing is no longer an option, if it ever had been since I swore my allegiance, my soul, to those with higher purposes than my own. Instead, I retreat a few steps to the couch, which is quilted with bold blocks of color in humble patterns, and gracefully fold myself down onto the plush cushions, my posture impeccable. I close my eyes and concentrate on the way the furniture cradles my frame, how it is comfortable in the manner that unpretentious seating often is, and study the coarseness of the texture beneath where my hands rest to either side of me.

It is blessedly silent for an indeterminate length of time until I detect the light, padding footsteps approaching in my direction. There is a faint whisper of cloth before me, but I keep my sight hidden in the soothing darkness, uninterested in discovering what the man is doing, and the need to do so is quickly made unnecessary when hesitant fingers slide up and over my knees, grasping them lightly.

“Don’t,” I instruct tonelessly and the touch disappears.

A brief sigh, and then he says, “I must apologize again.”

“Save it. The habit is tiresome and means nothing,” I reply immediately.

“Perhaps…”

The subtle shifting of fabric reaches my hearing again, before those questing fingertips brush as lightly as gossamer webs against my cheeks and my eyes snap open at last. With movements too fast to follow, I clasp his wrists and pull them apart until his hands are out of reach of my face, and then frown down at where he kneels on the carpet in front of me, meeting his gaze sternly. “You are _not_ paying attention, Tuesti.”

“I promise that I am,” he affirms earnestly in denial.

“What you said…” I trail off, sorting through what I want to say and what I want to leave unsaid.

“Yes?”

“Never speak to me like that again,” I demand decisively, completely certain on that matter, at least.

“Of course,” he complies promptly.

“And…” I breathe in deeply and look above him for a moment, and then return my focus to regard his serious expression, knowing that my own reflects much the same. “I’m sorry.” His brows rise in confusion, and I elaborate solemnly, “It doesn’t matter what you said, I still had no right to hurt you like I did, and I apologize for that. Forgive me.”

His lips part in astonishment and he begins searching my face, seeming to trace over every line and curve in an intense manner I can almost feel on my skin like a physical touch, as if he is yearning to open me up like one of his robotic creations and peer inside at my interior workings. He attempts to break free from my grasp on his wrists, but I hold him steady and he instead uses this as a way to brace himself, standing up and then straddling my legs, ignoring how I tighten my hands and growl his name in warning. I attempt to guide him away without sending him tumbling from his precarious perch, but he only resists by pulling his arms back while pushing his chest forward between them. His struggling is halted in an awkward pose, his shoulders stretched taut and his forearms raised up perpendicularly to them, elbows tucked in snugly to his sides, looking as though he is about to perform some bastardized type of incline press with my restraining hands his weights. I am able to keep him bowed back slightly over me, about a foot away, and the only areas we are linked are at his wrists and his calves along the outside of my thighs.

At a stalemate in this ludicrous position, we stare at each other, before I inform him tersely, “You have three seconds to get off me or I’m dumping you on the floor.”

“Tseng, _please_.” He tries to close the distance between us, straining against my grip, but I do not give an inch, and his voice is filled with need as he resorts to begging, “Just once, that is all I ask. _Please, just once_.”

“Liar,” I retort, but now I want him to after hearing his plea, the obvious desire in his voice, and I start to relax my arms, allowing him to bear down on them and lean in closer to my body.

It seems to take forever, watching his face tilt down towards my own as I lower him to meet me, and then his eyes are sliding closed and his head is angling slightly in preparation. When there is barely a breath of space left separating us, he surges forward and presses his mouth to mine, his lips hungry and insistent and divine.


	6. Chapter 6

The frantic tempest within him is reined in nearly as soon as it is let loose, but I cannot find any will to complain when Tuesti eases his initial assault into a more thorough exploration. Not one naturally inclined to passivity, I am surprised that I am perfectly content to allow his tongue to press between my lips and stroke along my own without offering even a token showing of resistance. It is almost like a dance, the way he leisurely probes and twists that adept muscle, enticing me to match his movements with subtle advances and withdrawals, and I surrender to his lead. He maps the inside of my mouth with a delicate intensity I can’t recall ever being subjected to, gentle seeking flicks with the tip before flattening the appendage for broader contact and caress. He seems to gauge my reactions, however minute, to his attentions of every slick area he can reach inside of me, testing, tasting, alternately retreating and then revisiting. I feel as though I am being laid bare to him, all without removing a single article of clothing or touching anywhere other than my hands curled around his wrists, his legs a solid presence along my thighs, and his mouth, that exquisite mouth, torturing me, opening me, stealing the breath from my lungs.

It isn’t enough.

Abruptly, I drop my hands from his arms and seize his hips, forcing his legs further apart as I roughly jerk him to me. The evidence of our arousals collide and then grind together as I simultaneously arch up beneath him and bodily move him to rub against me in fierce delectable friction. His worship at my mouth ceases with a deep groan, but only briefly, and he is quickly back to methodically undoing any logic or sense that has ever taken up residence in my mind. My submission starts to fray at the edges and I return his kiss with more fervent strength, seeking to overthrow the tenderness he bestows with the burning, unforgiving waves of my lust. I shove it into his mouth with my tongue, no longer compliant, no longer simply accepting his talented oral ministrations, but demanding that he succumbs to my passion, that he bends to my control.

He breaks from me with a gasped, “Tseng!”

I growl in response and immediately set to attacking the soft skin of his neck with my lips, but he leans back further out of range and my complete focus shifts to where we are still connected below the waist. My nails dig into his hips with bruising pressure as I maneuver him in an unrelenting rhythm, thrusting and pulling him to slide over me. My sight is fixated on his face and I watch his eyes roll close, a shuddering moan drawing out from his throat. He wrenches himself upright suddenly and then forward to grasp my shoulders. A burst of victorious satisfaction singes a blazing trail through my body, but it is momentary when I realize he is trying to escape, now pushing and fighting my hold.

“Tseng!”

My name is an urgent command this time, but I shake my head wordlessly and maintain the frenetic pace of our joining, angry at the composure I see settling into his features, furious that he possesses such great restraint when I have none.

He tangles a hand into my hair and yanks my head back sharply, painfully enough to penetrate the haze of desperate longing strangling my rational thought, before leaning down to put his face in front of mine and ordering in a hard tone, “Stop! _Right now_.”

My conditioning to obeying immediate orders without question reemerges and I release him, stilling the essential violence I had forced into our movements against each other. Reluctantly, I allow him to rise up and put distance between us, when all I want is to crush him back to me. Dazed and aching from the denial, I shut my eyes to block out the sight of him, which hurts far more than the stinging in my scalp. He looks irresistible with the blush of color lighting up his skin, the swelling to his lips from the punishment they had endured, and the darkened shade of his irises that is at odds with his projected calm. As I struggle to find self-control, to reassert the reasoning and higher functioning skills of my brain, he loosens his punishing grip on my head and then massages the spot gently in silent apology.

“You are going to drive me insane,” I mutter quietly, more to myself than to him.

He makes a soft consoling noise and his hand begins to run through my hair in slow, soothing strokes. “I knew it was a bad idea, getting close to you. You don’t deserve to be toyed with like this.”

“Why…?” I hunt for words to give voice to my bewilderment. “Why did we have to stop? Why is it so important that… that we don’t _fuck_? For _fuck’s sake_ , Tuesti, it wouldn’t be the end of the world!”

Watching the gravity in his expression war with amusement fails to provoke my customary irritation, emotionally drained and bereft as I am, and he eventually answers haltingly, “Because… I am afraid.”

“Why?” I ask again, and then lower my tone in warning when I bite off in a rush, “And don’t try to pull some sort of ‘virgin’ or ‘inexperienced’ card. Not after that display. I won’t buy it.”

He chuckles. “No, I’m not going to try that. It’s you I’m afraid of, not sex.”

“Me?” I scoff and shake my head. “Try again.”

“Yes, _you_ , Tseng. You terrify me, although probably not in the way you are used to causing fear,” he says with careful levity, and I don’t need to look to picture his sheepish smile. “But that doesn’t matter. I thought you didn’t come here for this?”

“It does matter, and I’ve changed my mind.”

With a musing hum, he brings both of his hands up to cradle the back of my head and then brushes a light kiss to my forehead, causing my brow to furrow, before removing himself from the couch. I open my eyes to him approaching the sofa to my right and smoothly sitting down, his countenance as serene and affable as though we had been engaged in nothing more significant than a conversation about the weather. While I still respect his ability to appear unaffected, I can sense the stirrings of loathing for it in that moment.

“Be that as it may, allowing ourselves to become distracted by something of such little consequence could very well prove fatal for me.”

Irrationally and selfishly, I want to dispute the claim, but I recognize the truth of it and I instead decide to address what the flavor I had detected in him signifies, nearly buried beneath the tang of coffee and mint, now that I am thinking clearly enough to do so. I am comforted by the annoyance I feel at the oversight, for having failed to piece together the other symptoms, even as concern seeps into my awareness. “How long have you been receiving the broad spectrum antiviral and antivenin cocktail injections?”

He stills for few beats of a second, and then responds casually, undaunted by any surprise at my assessment, “Close to five months now.”

“ _Commissioner_!” My shocked alarm is instant and intense in its potency, blotting out all other thought for a breathless moment where I feel my heart stutter in my chest, and I stare at him incredulously.

“I know it’s not exactly… _safe_ to take in the long-term, but it has already saved my life on more than one occasion and I assure you that it’s a necessary risk.”

“’A necessary risk’?” I repeat back mockingly. “The trials were discontinued due to the high fatality rate from a _single dose_.”

“I’m aware of that, and the trials _haven’t_ been discontinued, not completely. There have been several breakthroughs with the testing the public doesn’t know of yet.”

“I am not the public. You have been testing it on _yourself_ ,” I accuse scathingly. “Even if your scientists have managed to mitigate the chances of sudden heart failure, _which you won’t know for certain until you are dead_ , the damage done to your internal organs will probably take years, possibly _decades_ , off of your life!”

My hands clench tightly into fists when he merely nods thoughtfully at my angry words, and says, “True, but again, it’s necessary, and believe me, not something I decided on lightly.” He suddenly flashes an innocuously charming grin at me. “I am a bit disappointed to be losing my boyish good looks so soon, though.”

If he were closer, I would be throttling him right now, and it is with greater difficulty than I would like to admit that I resist the urge to rise from the couch and make the violent imagery playing out in my head a reality.

“You are absolutely stunning when you’re thinking murderous thoughts, you know,” he states while studying my face avidly when I remain quiet, and I can feel my blood pressure climbing to further heights.

“You need to shut up _this instant_ , Tuesti, or poison and biological warfare will be the least of your worries.”

He ducks his head in a bashful manner, likely to conceal a smirk, and then has the gall to admonish me with, “You are overreacting. Surely you never believed I would live to a ripe old age, not since I took up the mantle of leadership in a world still roiling with turmoil, and this changes little in the matter.”

“With all due respect, which isn’t much at the moment, _Sir_ , there’s a lot of difference between the probabilities of something happening and _making sure it will occur_.”

“I know,” he replies neutrally and regards me with a gaze I can only describe as pitying.

The bubbling ire within swells, but I shove it down as I choose another track. “You’re not afraid to die and you expect to in the near future.”

“…And?”

The wariness in his simple question mollifies me somewhat, but I know that the smile curving up my mouth is unpleasant with an edge of bitterness to it. I declare with even finality, “And there is no valid reason for us not to have sex.”

His abrupt, delighted laughter fills the air, echoing throughout the room, before he asks with open glee, “ _That_ is your conclusion regarding my impending demise?!”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head several times, chuckling, and then says, “Tseng… You are honestly a treasure, but as I have already told you, the distraction-“

“Would be far greater in continuing to resist our attraction,” I finish for him. “If we get it out of the way, both of us would think clearer.”

Checkmate.

After staring at me for a lengthy period of time, obviously nonplussed, he finally responds with, “That might possibly be the case…” He pauses briefly. “For myself, at least.”

I frown and ask sharply, “What are you implying?”

He raises a hand up to absently run his fingertips over his beard as his eyes lose focus and he gazes blankly out into space.

“Tuesti,” I prompt in a clipped tone and he looks back at me, but his expression remains distant.

“There is no need… for you to get hurt in all of this. Not any more than you already have been, anyway,” he adds on wryly.

“I can handle myself.”

“And _exquisitely_ , I know, but I’ve always suspected the reason you don’t allow anyone to be near you in any meaningful way, except for your fellow Turks, and maybe the President, is to protect yourself.”

“As many people protect themselves.”

“Yes, but the problem is I think you might care more than most do. When they show… your emotions are rather explosive.”

“Really,” I say flatly, putting as much contempt into that single utterance as I am able to show what I think of his accusation.

“Really,” he confirms.

“You think I can’t keep a professional distance if we become intimate.”

“Yes.”

“…I’m not sure I have ever been more insulted in my entire life,” I counter evenly and he bursts into hearty laughter at my statement. I am beginning to notice that he seems to laugh more in my presence than in that of any other, a realization that sinks into me uneasily. “And I disagree with you completely.”

“Of course you do, but that changes nothing,” he replies brightly. “Now, moving on-“

“No, we’re not finished with this.”

“Tseng-“

“ _No_ , you have said your piece, now let me say mine.”

He sighs wearily and then inclines his head in my direction. “As you wish, but allow me to remind you that the hour grows late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, that’s a little better. They’ve been doing unspeakable things up in my mind and IT HAS BEEN HIGHLY DISTRACTING.


	7. Chapter 7

I narrow my eyes at his tactless attempt to rush me, and then inform him blandly, “I am staying the night.”

He momentarily covers his face with his hand and groans in frustration. “No, you are not, and this argument is becoming far too circular. We’re getting nowhere. While your persistence is… flattering, you will have to accept my decision on this.”

“One of the reasons you wanted me here in Edge is to try to divert the attention of your enemies from yourself, correct?” I ask rhetorically, already certain of the answer.

“…Yes, that is one of the reasons,” he responds slowly with suspicion heavy in his gaze as he regards me closely.

“If the attacks are personal in nature, would I not be made into a greater target if people were led to believe that we are lovers?”

His tone is scandalized when he answers curtly, “No, absolutely _not_! I’m not willing to do that. I’m uncomfortable with how much danger I am placing you in as it is, Tseng.”

“Right, and going out to dinner and then undressing me with your eyes in public wouldn’t have already given interested parties that impression.”

“That was a mistake, a moment of weakness on my part, and I sincerely apologize for it, but we can still reassert the appearance of professionalism between ourselves.”

“I think it was intentional, all of it, but now you’re backtracking because of a guilty conscience.”

“If you really have such a low opinion of me, if you genuinely believe I am capable of…” He trails off, and then questions incredulously, “Why are you even willing to help me?”

“Your death would destabilize the planet.”

“Ah, of course, ever the sensible Turk,” he says with a hint of resentment, turning the compliment into an insult.

“A sensible Turk that will be devoting his skills to keeping you alive, so showing some gratitude wouldn’t be out of line, Commissioner,” I chide.

Apropos of nothing, he suddenly inquires, “How sure are you that I am here in the flesh right now?”

My spine stiffens in shock at the possibility, my posture becoming even more rigid as I start to mentally shift through the details of our interactions, before I relax and offer him a cynical half-smile. “ _Very_ sure.”

“Why is that?”

“I doubt you would waste time programming your doubles to kiss that effectively and…” A disturbing thought crops up in my mind and I allow faint revulsion to show in my expression. “Are you insinuating that your Reeve-alikes are _anatomically correct_?”

His eyes widen comically and then he erupts into laughter, a smooth tenor of unfettered joy that is becoming increasingly more pleasing to my ears and my lips curve up against my will, any attempt at projecting stern disapproval failing spectacularly at the sound.

_**And sight. He is good-looking, but when he laughs… I’m in trouble here.** _

“I don’t design and tell.” He wipes away moisture at the corners of his eyes, chuckles a few times, and then aims a sly grin in my direction. “I’m afraid you’ll have to molest one to find out.”

“ _You want me to molest your creations_?”

He shrugs and remarks carelessly, “I have given half a thought to the construction of models for the adult entertainment industry.” Following a short pause, he adds on as an afterthought, “Naturally.”

“’Naturally’? There is nothing _natural_ about making robots solely to be used in such a disgusting manner,” I insist heatedly.

Raising an eyebrow in amusement, he asserts, “You are remarkably prudish about some things. The result of a strict Wutainese upbringing, I suspect.” I frown at the presumption, but make no attempt to dispute it. “Do you think the use of sex toys is also disgusting?”

“No, but what you create…” I cast my gaze over the sparse decorations of the room almost sightlessly, seeking a way to rationally explain why I find the prospect morally reprehensible, and my focus finally drifts onto a miniature figurine of Cait Sith, tiny megaphone lifted up to its mouth. “They think, they adapt, they choose, they learn, and for all intents and purposes, they seem to _feel_. It would be _wrong_ , Reeve,” I implore. He regards me fondly, almost tenderly, as I speak, which causes my hackles to rise further and I scowl at him when I am finished.

“You truly are a wealth of contradictions. I didn’t think you would care.”

“I thought we established that you don’t know me.”

With an absent nod of his head, he professes, “I hope I have the luxury of getting to know you well. The more I see, the more I like.”

“Yes, that you like me is very important,” I mutter laconically and then stare hard at him for a moment. “Now that I am aware that you’ve considered making _sentient sex toys_ to be abused by the masses, is this the real you?”

A low noise of humor escapes him, before he replies, “I came to the same conclusion as you, and I wouldn’t actually do it.” He gestures at himself with mock grandeur and winks. “This is the real me, in the flesh.”

I sigh. “I can’t tell when you are lying.”

“Which is fortunate for me. If you are preoccupied with trying to determine my reality, I should have an easier time of resisting your advances. Unless you’ve changed your mind again and are going to stop?”

The hope in his glance is obvious and I take pleasure in crushing it with a brusque, “No.”

“So be it,” he responds ambivalently.

“Elaborate on your supposed fear of me.”

“I really shouldn’t need to.”

“Humor me.”

He reclines on the sofa and stretches his arms out to either side to rest along the back, crosses his legs at the ankles, and then sets to studying me thoroughly. “I believe we share a trait, you and I, where we would much rather risk our lives than our hearts.”

“That is ridicu-“

Talking over my protest, he interrupts, “If you are captured, I will be blackmailed.”

“If I’m not killed outright,” I agree readily. “And? That is a certainty, regardless of whether we are involved with each other or not.”

“And it would hurt so much more to turn down the demands for your safety if I let myself love you,” he says in a frank, matter-of-fact tone that temporarily stuns me into silence.

When I recover my voice, I reproach him sharply with, “That is _absurd_. I’m offering you sex, not _love_. Why would you even bring up…?” I break off and shake my head adamantly in denial.

“I’m not saying it would be a problem for you, but I’ve never been able to keep arrangements of that type… _casual_. It’s a failing on my part, not yours, and you must understand now why I have to maintain my distance from you.” 

As he talks, his countenance is filled with a beseeching, earnest light while my own darkens until I am glowering at him openly in fierce displeasure as I tell him, “You’re slipping up, Commissioner.”

“What?”

“You just accused me, _minutes ago_ , of lacking control over my emotions, and now you are claiming that it’s the other way around?”

“And _you_ just assured me that I was mistaken,” he retorts immediately. “You _are_ a man of your word, are you not?”

I choose to ignore his allusion about my character this time, and then muse aloud, “If there’s any truth to that…”

“I _knew_ you would understand,” he comments with tangible relief.

“I understand, but your assuming that I would care if I broke your heart is a mistake.”

_**Is it?** _

“Tseng!” he cries, visibly dismayed and agitated. “I don’t believe _for a moment_ that you would care about the rights and wellbeing of robotic entities but not about hurting me like that!”

“Believe what you will. You, yourself, said that I’m full of contradictions.”

“Yes, but…”

“Provided I am not executed immediately, I _will_ be tortured, and that is not something I enjoy, so I will be taking every measure possible to avoid being captured in the first place.” His glance flickers down over my chest, and I find myself wondering if he is imagining the scarring there, if Valentine had told him about the extent of the injuries I suffered at the hands of the three remnants in the Northern Crater. Memories best left in the past begin to press at my consciousness, and I drag my mind back to the present. “Let’s not forget it’s more likely an attempt on your life will be successful.”

“Yes, let’s not forget _that_. Your ability to comfort is unparalleled.”

“I know,” I murmur seriously and incline my head imperiously, provoking a quiet laugh from him.

“So that is your stance? That I might very well be dead tomorrow and should seize the night, fall into your arms, so to speak, my delicate emotions be damned?”

“And you deserve it.”

“Deserve it? You are offering your body up as what, a reward of some sort? How _noble_ and self-sacrificing you are,” he utters with thick scorn. “No thank you.”

I successfully fight the urge to roll my eyes before answering, “I wasn’t referring to my body. I meant that you deserve to experience pleasure, as much as anyone does, but you seem set on punishing or denying yourself that. I would appreciate it if you stopped interpreting everything I say in the worst possible manner.”

“Interpreting everything in the worst way doesn’t just annoy you, but has the added benefit of getting you to actually explain what you mean. You are often cryptic, you know.”

“ _I’m_ cryptic?” I snap dubiously. “Do you even listen to yourself talk, Tuesti?”

“I’ve never claimed I wasn’t, and it’s not like it’s something that’s mutually exclusive in people.”

There is an obvious, challenging glint in his eyes, but any desire I have to meet it ebbs unexpectedly as fatigue from this constant battle of wills settles rapidly within me. “Where is your guest room?”

“Uh…”

“You _do_ have a guest room?”

“Technically, I have a room that is supposed to be for guests, but I turned it into a workshop shortly after I moved in.”

“Of course you did.” I mutter an oath under my breath and critically eye the furniture I am sitting on, noting with distaste that it is not long enough to accommodate my height. “The couch will be fine.”

“No, you can use my bed.”

“I am not sleeping in your bed unless you join me.”

He gives a startled chuckle and then directs a reproachful glare at me that is not in the least bit convincing. “Tempting, but I have a cot in the workshop. I’ll sleep there.”

“This is your home and you will sleep in your own bed. I’ll take the cot.”

“You are my _guest_ and shouldn’t have to be uncomfortable just because I’m not set up to host anyone. I insist that you take the bed.”

“And I refuse. You are my superior _and_ my elder, even if it’s only by a couple years.”

“You are pulling _my_ rank and seniority to order me about?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” He is openly struggling not to laugh and I feel the strong impulse to do the same.

“It doesn’t need to make sense. Off to bed with you, _now_ ,” I demand.

“No! _You_ will go to bed like a good little boy.”

I grimace and shudder faintly. “Don’t… call me that.”

“Oh?” A playfully devilish gleam shades his features as he rises to his feet and then strolls over to stand before me. The mannerism is eerily reminiscent of Reno and I know I am not going to like whatever he says next. “How about ‘cheeky, depraved boy’, then? No, that doesn’t have the right ring to it. Perhaps ‘wicked little boy’? Hmm, I know… I should take you over my knee for your insolence, you _naughty, sinful boy_.”

He looks ridiculously proud of himself when I merely stare up at him, aghast with horror, in response. I clear my throat as his expression begins to change into concern and I manage to verbalize with difficulty. “Your… ‘dirty talk’ leaves much to be desired. I think I just felt my ability to get an erection die.”

His bright gale of mirth is predictable, but less affecting than normal, as I had spoken with complete honesty, and I wait it out numbly. At last, he declares, “My work here is done, and you _will_ sleep in my bed _without_ me, something I’m sure you are grateful for now. It’s the last door at the end of the hallway. Goodnight!”

And he walks away while I watch with a confusion that is swiftly transforming into anger.

_**His declaration of victory is premature.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their voices still feel off, and that’s really not a good thing, given how much I’ve written. Always viewed them as having a similar vocabulary, even phrasing, but differing in delivery and tone, with Tseng being much more direct and concise with his wording, of course. Something’s just not right, though. RAWR!


	8. Chapter 8

Having positioned myself directly outside of the closed door I assume leads to the bathroom, I lightly clasp my left wrist with my right hand in front of me at the waist, arms relaxed and shoulders back in a pose I think of as ‘high-end bodyguard’. It is one of the first stances drilled into newly recruited Turks, keeping hands within quick reaching distance of the firearms concealed beneath the suit jacket, granting an air of elegant nonchalance, but most importantly, helping to prevent unacceptable fidgeting. Much of the initial training consists of little more than the rookies standing in this manner, for hours on end, observing whatever there is to observe and offering a fully detailed report after the proceedings, no matter how prosaic, that must be complete in its accuracy or further mind-numbing duty of the same will continue to be assigned. Rude still holds the record for fastest completion of the deportment training, while Elena was only subjected to a rudimentary course because of the rushed nature of her appointment as a Turk due to the scramble to replenish our depleted numbers, and has never succeeded in erasing all traces of fiddling with various effects upon her person. My own experience had been unremarkably average, other than breaking my habit of glaring murderously at anything that garnered my attention when I allowed my mind to wander.

Reno, predictably, was nearly terminated on several occasions as a result of his conduct during the entire year it took before he was approved for active duty, a record of a different sort. In one memorable incident, he managed to destroy enough of the support beams of an abandoned warehouse to topple the roof onto the building next to it, where a meeting between Shinra representatives and the members of an illicit human trafficking ring was taking place, killing everyone inside. The employees had been considered expendable and the traffickers likely to be targeted for disposal, but I was certain when I had arrived with Veld at the violently remodeled husk of twisted metal and crumbling brick, that the redhead’s existence was about to come to a messy end. I had offered a silent farewell to my coworker when he turned to our leader with a jerk of his thumb back over his shoulder, said, “Yo, boss, that forklift still works,” and Veld’s gun-arm had raised up to point at his head with the loud chambering of a bullet.

The buzzing of a trimmer from beyond the barrier ceases and I idly listen to the short bursts of water from a faucet, a pitched clinking of an object being tapped against porcelain, and then the door swings inward to reveal the Commissioner, surprise evident on his damp face that swiftly changes to irritation at my presence.

“Now what?” he snipes brusquely, patience obviously exhausted to match his appearance.

“Now I tuck you into bed.”

Stretching his neck back, he casts his gaze up to the ceiling, and mutters in exasperation, “The Ancients grant me strength. Don’t you ever give up?”

“No.” Abruptly, he feints to one side and then attempts to dart passed me to the other, but I easily bar his way with an arm to the wall and mockingly tsk down at him in disapproval. Raising my free hand, I place my index finger under his chin and tilt his face up, taking more satisfaction than I should in the simmering frustrated resentment I see there. “Why should I have to be the one to give up, Reeve?”

He licks his lips and my sight is drawn unerringly to them. Anticipating another ploy, I keep my focus diffused as I stroke my thumb across his mouth teasingly, tracing the edges of the supple flesh and brushing along the corners, before pressing firmly in the center until he opens to me. His eyes are solemn, almost grave, as they stare into my own and that as much as the tentative flick of his tongue ignites a languid, pulsing fire through my nerves to pool in my groin.

_**Such a simple action… Why does he affect me so strongly? Has it just been too long since I have touched another like this? Been touched like this? Is it the same for him?** _

I moan softly when he pulls my thumb further into his mouth, his lips tightening around it and his cheeks hollowing slightly as he begins to suck gently, lavishing my rough skin with his wet heat. I am utterly captivated by the delicate sensations of his subtle movements. Tingling bolts of pleasure race down my arm and spread throughout my body from that singular, deceptively innocuous connection.

_**What am I doing? What am I going to do?** _

In that moment, I feel lost and adrift and aching, as I fight to not be consumed by my sudden lust, to not cause irrevocable damage with my desire, to not violate his consent and trust by forcing what I want against his will. I know I can do all of that and more, take from him to satiate the growing primal need within, and merely the thought sends a damning thrill down my spine, tautening my muscles with the eagerness to act on my aggressive and possessive impulses to claim him.

I jerk my hand from him, step back, and turn away. When my chest expands rapidly, hitching in a lungful of air with a sharp painful gasp, I realize I had stopped breathing at some point.

“Tseng?” he asks quietly, hesitance and confusion plain in his voice.

My mind is reeling, off kilter, and I growl out, “You were right. I shouldn’t have stayed. I will leave.” It seems like the only acceptable decision to make and I seize on the concept desperately.

“What? Wait!”

I am nearly to the archway that leads into the living room when he grabs onto my bicep, and I don’t require his urging to spin around and pin him to the wall. I crush my mouth to his and furiously plunder him with deep plunges of my tongue until my awareness registers that his hands are pushing frantically against my chest. With a cruel parting bite to his bottom lip that floods me with the bitter copper taste of blood, I withdraw and glare at him, panting harshly.

He stares at me while lifting a hand to gingerly press his fingertips to his bleeding mouth, shocked, stunned, and then he murmurs with what I can only interpret as awe, “Wow.”

“Wow?” I repeat back disbelievingly. “You don’t know just how close I came to _seriously hurting you_.”

“I trust you not to,” he responds immediately with total confidence. I flinch at the words, and he continues earnestly, “What I said in the kitchen, I didn’t mean any of it. I was… angry, that you were touching me when I told you not to, that I wanted you to touch me so badly. I know you wouldn’t do something like that.”

I laugh, but the sound contains no joy, only jagged shards of acidity. “Why, exactly, do you think the accusation almost sent me into a rage? I was this close,” I hold two fingers an inch apart to demonstrate, “to _hitting_ you. Have you considered that?”

“I thought… you had figured out what I was up to and that was what made you mad.”

“No, it was because there is much more truth to what you said than I want to admit!”

My confession, which had risen to a low shout, seems to echo through the small corridor in the silence that follows. The expression that gradually flows over Tuesti’s features is not one I want to see, and he practically shimmers at me with sympathy and compassion.

“I still trust you,” he states firmly.

“You shouldn’t.”

“It is not our desires, wants, or even our thoughts that determines who we are, but the actions we choose to take in spite of what we might feel, what we might be driven to do from within.” He reaches out to my face, but I move back out of range and his hands hover awkwardly in the air for a moment before dropping to his sides. “I believe that you are an honorable person, Tseng.”

With a light scoff, I regard him disdainfully. “Rewriting the past, are we? Will you absolve me of all my many sins now?”

He hums ponderously with a portrayal of serious consideration, and then amends, “Well, _partly_ honorable, I guess would be a more accurate description. You are honorable in _some_ ways.” I make a disgruntled noise deep in my throat when he flashes a bright grin at me, openly pleased with his clarification.

“You… _are a fool_.”

“So you have said.”

An idea begins to form in my mind, one that is decidedly dishonorable and would certainly push the boundaries he has set, erode the restrictions he has placed between us, but I find that my integrity fails to balk in response, which probably means nothing regarding right or wrong at this stage.

“You trust me?” I ask for confirmation.

Wariness alights on his face instantly, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then will you allow me my ‘ _Please, just once_ ’ request?”

His cheeks flush pink at my imitation of his earlier begging to kiss me, and he replies slowly, “That depends on your request.”

“I want you to agree before you know what it is, and since I am an _honorable_ person, you shouldn’t be nervous at accepting my terms.”

_**Completely underhanded. If I wasn’t already guaranteed to end up in Hell…** _

“You are an evil bastard.”

I smirk. “Finally, something we can fully agree on.”

“But I accept your terms.”

The fissure of warring compulsions that strikes me at his ready compliance nearly causes me to reconsider, but I shut away my doubts with little effort. I hold out a hand to him and after a brief pause, he places his own in my grasp and I begin to escort him to his bedroom.

“If you are going to simply send me to bed, I will be both relieved and disappointed,” he says with a slight staccato rhythm that has a hint of apprehension to it as we walk down the hallway.

“That’s not what I am going to do.”

“But it will only be once?”

“Unless you ask me to again.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

He falls silent when I open the door and enter into the bedroom, tugging him in behind me, and I stand motionless for a moment, taking in what appears to be the only space in this ‘home’ that is personalized and speaks to what I thought I knew of the man. Warm, earthy tones are the main theme, creating a cozy atmosphere, and lights hang in shaded globes that manage to provide intense functional illumination over the many surfaces scattered with various collections of unfinished robotic projects without being glaring to the eye. The bed is large and partially concealed with heavy drapes, but set against the far wall seemingly as an afterthought.

I frown in puzzlement as I absently scan over the numerous frames containing pictures of AVALANCHE within the shelves and random prints of landscapes along the walls. “Why… if you have all this, do you even bother with a workshop? _This_ is a workshop.”

He chuckles softly with embarrassment. “These are just hobbies, really, not anything I often have much time for and I don’t like to have this clutter in the way when I am working on something important, hence the actual workshop. I sometimes… tinker before going to sleep.”

Shaking off the strange sense of uneasiness I feel from being confronted with this apparent display of authenticity of his character, I lead him through the profusion of hardwood tables to the bed.

“Sit down,” I order and then without waiting for him to respond, I push him down onto the mattress.

“So impatient, aren’t you?” he quips lightly at my manhandling, but his eyes are narrowed with irritation.

“Yes,” I answer distractedly as I deliberate how to go about this. It is not something I have ever done before, nor an act I had ever given serious consideration to performing, not willingly, anyway, and had certainly never thought to do so eagerly.

_**This is simple. People do it every day. Surely it can’t be that difficult.** _

My mental gearing up to the task has less effect than I had hoped. I am out of my element and I loathe the insecurity that snakes a path through my consciousness, which only increases when I notice Tuesti staring at me with perplexity and faint traces of concern.

_**Just do it!** _

With no warning, I quickly drop to my knees on the beige carpeting before him and watch the startled realization of what I have planned dawn on his face. His mouth shapes the word ‘no’ but no sound accompanies it and he instead shakes his head adamantly at me.

“You agreed,” I remind him.

He recovers his ability to speak, unfortunately. “I know, but _this_ is… This is your ‘just once’? You can’t want to do this,” he denies firmly, and then suggests, “Perhaps a reversal of roles would be more to your liking?”

“Don’t tell me what I want. Why are you so set against being pleasured?” I question with exasperation, but hold up a hand to forestall any reply. “It doesn’t matter. I am doing this, and you are going to sit back and _enjoy it_.”

“Have you ever given someone a blow job before?” he inquires bluntly, likely attempting to scare me off by stating explicitly what I am about to do, and all doubt of his intention is removed when he issues his next question. “Ever sucked someone’s dick before?”

“No,” I respond calmly. “But I’ll figure it out. I have another stipulation, _shut up_.”

Surprisingly, he does, but that could be because I am now unbuckling his belt. Once the slim leather band is undone, I pull it slowly from the loops that restrain it and carelessly let it fall to the floor, and then return my attention to the front of his slacks and reach for the button. He wraps a hand around my wrist before my fingers touch the small metal fixture, stalling my movement, and I glare up at him sternly.

“Tseng…” His gaze is pleading as he uncertainly trails his turbulent eyes along my face and down over my kneeling form, and then drags them back up. “Just once?”

“Just once,” I assure him with a faint smile.

Eventually, he nods and releases me. I waste no time in unbuttoning his pants, but slow my pace to leisurely part the teeth of the zipper, which he is already straining against the confines of, the thickness of him distending the fabric in a long, solid ridge.

_**If it’s unpleasant, at least it won’t take long.** _

I tilt my head down, as if in concentration on the task, but the true purpose is to hide my smirk, and even though my enjoyment is irrelevant, I am elated by the undeniable entertainment I feel in spite of my hesitancy. Until I separate the seams of his fly, that is, and stare in horrified fascination at what lies beneath.

“I wasn’t expecting-“

“I don’t want to know,” I cut him off tersely and regard the hideous neon green boxers covered in tiny pink moogles with distaste. “This will have to go. I can’t focus with… _that_ looking at me.”

“It’s not _looking_ at y-“

“ _Enough_. There is no excuse capable of justifying this.” An odd noise causes me to raise my gaze to Tuesti’s face, and I am greeted with the sight of him with his hands clamped tightly over his mouth and his eyes dancing with brilliant mirth. “Did you just giggle?” He shakes his head violently back and forth. “You’re lying. I heard it.”

He arches back in a taut line that is pleasing to the eye and loses his battle with his amusement, thunderous husky laughter shattering the stillness of the air, his entire body quaking with the force. While I watch his explosive reaction, I inhale sharply as my chest begins to constrict with a heavy, unwelcome emotion that I refuse to name.

When he finally tapers off, I raise an eyebrow at him and question haughtily, “Are you done cackling during a highly inappropriate moment?” I regret my tone and phrasing when the delight drains from him as abruptly as a light switch being flipped off and he nods seriously in response. “You look adorable,” I say in an attempt to recapture the joy I had just chased away.

He offers a crooked smile at the compliment, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you, especially for… _this_.” He gestures indistinctly at the both of us. “If you were to stop right now, I wouldn’t mind. I have had a wonderful time already.”

I sigh in annoyance and then hook my fingers over the bands his repulsive undergarment and slacks. “Lean back.”

He obliges me without further protest, resting his weight on his forearms and helpfully lifting his hips up from the bed, and I begin to ease the apparel off of him carefully, tactfully ignoring his diminished erection. Regardless of my objective of remaining detached, I find myself riveted as his thighs are revealed inch by inch. The same intensity I normally experience with women is absent, but while I survey the differing shape and swells, the dense hair that liberally covers the long limbs, my budding physical attraction is unmistakable. When I finally finish lowering the clothing down his shins, I pull it from around his ankles and cast the bundle aside idly, thankful that he had removed his socks before my arrival, as they had no doubt been as vile as his boxers.

“Unbutton your shirt and spread it open,” I order softly, keeping my sight fixed on the floor until I can see in my peripheral vision that he has obeyed my command and he automatically returns to a reclined pose on the mattress without any prompting.

Starting at his feet, which I have little interest in, but I want to be thorough in my attentions, I take note of the neatly clipped nails and graceful arches, how they are slender and lanky to match the rest of him, before slowly and deliberately dragging my gaze back up for another, closer examination of the exposed skin I had just traversed while undressing him. Given that much of his duties as Commissioner take place behind a desk, I am pleasantly surprised at the compact yet sturdy muscle definition of his calves and thighs that suggests a great deal of jogging exercise. The inclination to run my hands along the length of them and caress their texture is strong, but I resist and raise my eyes for a teasing tracing of the profile of his narrow hips. Not allowing myself to balk at my discomfort, I turn to the most intimate part of him with unwavering concentration. That he is perfectly groomed here is as I expected and certainly welcome to my sight, and I stoically take in the contours of his member, half-erect and blushed a darkened shade. Attempting to see beauty in such an awkward appendage is difficult, but I manage to admire his girth and proportioning, trailing over the veins that stand out in delicate, twisting lines, and studying the sack that hangs down below and appears slightly swollen, drawn in tight to his body. Once I deem my assessment complete, my reservations at observing his private anatomy conquered, I venture up the planes of his abdomen and fight back the frown that tries to surface at the sunken quality I can detect now that my view is unobstructed, which indicates recent, substantial weight loss. Shoving away my concern with vicious impatience, I climb the ladder indentations of his ribs that flare up his chest and I alight across the lithe expanse of his pectorals, the shaded areola of his nipples, and then move higher along the sharp points of his clavicles, the elegant column of his neck. As I linger on every area of him laid bare for my perusal, I force the desire I feel to show clearly in my expression.

After my visual journey is concluded, I meet his eyes and state simply with genuine appreciation, “ _Breathtaking_.”

His eyes slide shut and he turns his head away mutely in response, his throat convulsing briefly. When he speaks, I am alarmed at the agony drenching his words, “Tseng, please don’t do that. I _can’t_ -“ His voice breaks on whatever else he has to say.

When I realize that he is crying silently, I stand with alacrity and then gather him into my arms, holding him to me in a steady, tight embrace. As I tuck his head in beneath my chin and sense the faint trembling of his body, I breathe out, “I’m sorry.”


	9. Chapter 9

The seconds tick by in that dichotomously bright and shadowy refuge, in the literal sense, as I vaguely notice the mechanical clicking of what must be a clock hidden somewhere in the room. Except for the barely perceptible tremors that shiver through his body and the hitched gasps of his breathing, he is motionless within my arms, muscles locked stiffly in place. I have his head cradled in one hand, pressing his cheek to my neck, while the other is holding firmly to his lower back. I ease the pressure there and begin to rub gently along the curve of his spine in long, measured passes, slowly up and then gradually back down. It seems to have the opposite effect of what I intend and he tenses even further, but I persist in the continuous petting.

“Everything won’t be alright,” I murmur in an effort to soothe, a gesture I am far from accustomed to, and the awkwardness is palpable in my tone but I forge on, “It never is, but right now… it is as close to alright as it can be.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The obstinance I hear in that simple, soft contradiction brings a pleased bend to my lips and some relief to my trepidation. “ _It is_. No one is trying to kill you right at this moment…” I pause briefly, “that we know of. This building is still standing. There are no catastrophic threats to the planet…” I hesitate again, and then add, “that we are aware of.”

“You’re horrible at comforting people, Tseng.”

His words are quiet but steady, and I feel bolstered in my attempt, even if it is horrible and lacking any sort of finesse. “You have someone who is _excellent_ at following instructions and willing to do anything you want, at your command and in your bedroom.”

“Anything except leave me alone.”

“You don’t actually want me to leave you alone.” There is no uncertainty in my voice.

“What I want and what I know I should want are two very different things.”

“They don’t have to be. You’re being stubborn.”

His breath blows out against the collar of my suit in a sigh, and he responds listlessly, “Pot, meet kettle.”

“Why are you punishing yourself?”

“I’m not. My reasons _are_ valid.”

“And the sky will fall if you allow yourself physical release? A little comfort and warmth from a lover’s body? Like that nonsense in horror films, your enemies will suddenly gain the upper hand if you’re deflowered?”

“…You plan to ‘deflower’ me?” he finally asks with obvious amusement and I relax further. “What of your claim that I’m not ‘inexperienced’ or that you think I was lying when I said I had never been with another man?”

“I have been readjusting my assumptions about you.”

“Yes, breaking down and sobbing in your arms right when you were going to-“ he cuts off what he is going to say and finishes with, “has no doubt readjusted many of the views you had of me.”

“I wouldn’t call this breaking down and you definitely weren’t sobbing,” I declare forcefully.

“Regardless, I am sor-“

Before he can complete his sentence, I use my hold on his head to roughly push his face down against my chest and he makes muffled, indignant noises into the heavy fabric there. As he struggles to free himself, I growl out, “ _Stop apologizing_ ,” and then allow him to come up for air.

“ _Stop yanking me around like a doll_ ,” he snaps back.

“If you learn to _behave_ yourself, maybe I will.” His efforts of resistance when he tries to pull away causes him to writhe against me and I am suddenly and vividly reminded that he is almost entirely nude, only that flimsy blue shirt covering his arms and back. He appears to notice as well, and quickly goes still in my now confining embrace.

“This is a highly compromising position and _not fair in the least_. You’re fully clothed!” His voice is cross and he orders sharply, “Let me go!”

I tighten my grip on him. “I can easily remedy the clothing situation.”

“You will have to let me go to do that.”

“Not if you help.”

“What exactly _is this_?! Why have you suddenly become some… some horny teenager with only sex on your mind?” he questions loudly with frustration.

“Because I think you need it. Now, where was I before you interrupted?”

He begins muttering under his breath, but I catch several usages of ‘ _fucking_ ’ and ‘ _bastard_ ’ along with ‘ _pig-headed_ ’, and then he tilts his head until his mouth is at my neck. I smirk at the move, but it is short-lived as a pained grunt is forced from my throat when he latches onto the sensitive skin there and bites down hard. It is now my turn to go still and not react as I instinctively want to, which is with violence, an urge I am only able to resist due to my stunned disbelief. 

“Reeve?” I address him in a deceptively placid tone.

He opens his mouth carefully to release me, and then asks cautiously, “Yes?”

“If you are going to do anything like that in the future, _warn me_ or I won’t be accountable for my actions,” I instruct sternly with clipped words.

“…And then after I warn you, you wouldn’t mind if I did it again?”

“Some pain, _if I am expecting it_ , is not… unpleasurable.”

“That’s good to know,” he replies cheekily, the grin in his voice evident, and I squeeze my arms tighter around him until he makes an involuntary sound of protest.

“You get off on playing with fire, don’t you?” I adjust my stance slightly and slide my thigh between his, satisfaction arcing through me when he gasps is response. “Mild-mannered executive with a taste for danger,” I remark lazily and roll my hips against his, brushing my leg firmly along his growing erection, “and a masochistic streak a mile wide.”

“Maybe I just like playing with _your_ fire,” he exhales the words out in a sigh, scarcely audible.

“Hmm…” I trail the hand I have resting in his hair down his neck, and then across his back to encircle his shoulders in my arm while I drop my other hand lower, coming up from below the hem of his shirt. I caress my palm over his ass leisurely, questing with my touch, travelling and examining his firm bare skin, the silky softness that I discover, with curious fingertips. When I have temporarily had my fill of the fondling, I grab one taut buttock roughly and pull him harder against my thigh, bending my knee enough to angle in for a closer fit, and he moans fetchingly at the contact. “Your responsiveness is… succulent,” I pitch my voice low and enunciate the syllables on the last word, but return to a normal timber to ask seriously, “Do you still have objections? Right now, at this moment, or may I continue?”

“I…” He clears his throat. “You…” Slumping against me suddenly, most of the tension flowing from his body like water, he murmurs in defeat, “Do what you want with me.”

I stiffen at the unexpected victory. “Are you certain?”

“ _Yes_ , do _whatever_ you want to! _Anything_!” he pleads hoarsely with raw shades containing a dizzying multitude of desperation and longing.

“Dangerous words,” I mutter, but I am merely stalling, inexplicably unsure now of how I should proceed, a dilemma that is becoming maddeningly more common the more I am alone with this unpredictable man.

_**Did this rollercoaster really take off less than thirty hours ago?** _

When he makes a sound that is almost a whimper and grinds himself on my leg, I dismiss my confused hesitation with an internal snarl and accommodate him, rocking forward to meet his thrusts, but only briefly before I firmly grasp his hip and halt his feverish movements. He plainly _whines_ at the denial, and it is only with a short, vicious battle for control that I am able to keep from caving to his wordless appeal. I manage to grit out gruffly, “You _will_ regret rubbing against my suit like that when you wind up with friction burns _down there_. Be _still_.”

“Please,” he whispers and nuzzles my neck, which causes me to tense momentarily in remembrance of his previous surprise attack. Given the stinging of the wound, I suspect he may have actually drawn blood.

“Don’t bite me right now. I need to concentrate.”

“Concentrate?” he inquires absently and nibbles on my throat, making my jaw to clench in annoyance.

“Just be quiet and don’t bite,” I demand tersely while I glide my hand from his hip to reach down between our bodies and then wrap my fingers securely around his penis in a solid grip. I am not quite certain what to call the noise he utters in reaction, but I chuckle huskily at it and ask teasingly, “Doesn’t this feel better?”

I think the stifled, choking cry is an affirmation. I give a tentative stroke to his length that causes him to buck forward into my touch, and I study the feel of him with open curiosity. Observing the anticipated similarities with my own and the fact that I am now convinced that there is no softer skin on the human body, even though it encases such hardness, I run my hand over him in light, exploratory caresses.

“ _Tseng_ ,” he groans in an unusually deep bass, stretching my name out in a way I have never heard before, turning it into a prayer, a curse, and a plea, all at once.

“ _What_?” My voice is deeper still, that of a stranger to my ears, and I halt my investigation to encircle him gently.

“I doubt I could…” he trails off and then rallies his resolve to continue urgently, “rip your throat out with my teeth, but I just might give it the old college try _if you don’t stop playing around_.”

“Now who’s impatient?”

“ _I am_!”

“Correct,” I respond with approval and reward him with a firm stroke to his straining flesh, contact no longer tenuous but strong and unyielding, and he moans adorably for me. My eyes narrow at the awkwardness of the angle, though, and I tell him, “Turn around.” He mutters something inarticulate and attempts to move within my grasp. I tighten my hand warningly, drawing a pleased groan from low in his throat, and then release him, provoking a whimper. “ _Turn around_ ,” I demand again in a harsher tone.

He thumps his forehead down onto my shoulder and a violent shudder twists through his entire frame, and when he speaks, his voice is tormented, “I’m really at the end of my rope here. _I can’t take any more of this teasing_.”

“Then pay attention _and do as I say_ ,” I snap and grab his biceps to bodily twirl him around.

He stumbles during the quick involuntary repositioning of his person, an oath tumbling from his lips, his coordination apparently and understandably flown away, but I pull him to me securely before he can fall. Any complaint he has for the aggressive treatment seems to be swiftly forgotten and he presses himself back into me, molding his body to mine. A startled, undignified groan is dragged from my mouth when I find the proof of my unnoticed arousal suddenly pushing insistently between the cleft of his ass.

“You _are_ happy to be here,” he breathes with evident shock.

That he is still surprised by this, after everything that has transpired, coils anger low in my abdomen, mixing with my desire in a way that is not wholly disagreeable. “ _Of course I am_!” I snarl and wrap a forearm along his stomach, bracing him and then grinding myself ardently against his backside.

He cries out in response and arches his back, straining his neck in a graceful line in order to press his lips to my jaw, kissing there with an open-mouthed, haphazard intensity that is all the more enticing for the messiness, the apparent loss of his control. I want to keep rocking into him, let his heat and passion and abandon engulf me until I reach completion, but my devotion to duty somehow manages to reassert itself, nearly against my will, and I slow my movements to the reverberation of his incoherent protest in my ear.

_**This isn’t about me. This is for him.** _

“Hush,” I murmur appeasingly and bring the arm not holding him up from my side, unclenching my hand from the fist it had curled into of its own volition and enfolding his cock decisively with a firm grip. His teeth scrape my jawline as he moans gutturally and this time there is no hesitance, no exploration, and no teasing in my touch, the position being of such similarity to pleasuring myself that I am able to almost immediately settle comfortably into a skilled rhythm. His head moves away from my own, for which I am grateful, preferring not to be bitten at this point in time, and the sound and volume of his pleasure increases in direct proportion with the speed of my strokes. The forceful thrusts of his hips driving him back against my erection is a sweet torture, but one that I ignore, focusing completely on the man I am handling intimately.

I don’t want the moment to end. I want this uncomplicated, instinctual act of physical indulgence to stretch into eternity, but that is an impossible petition, the futility of which is poignantly demonstrated by the way his voice chokes up suddenly, breaking off mid-cry, and the erratic stuttering that overwhelms his animalistic lunges. Stilling my hand, I simply cradle his penis with my palm as he throbs with his release, soaking in the sensation of the spasms quivering through his body where he is pressed against my own. I angle my head to push my cheek firmly to his, closing my eyes and listening raptly to his harsh breathing, striving to clearly feel, hear, and even smell to the best of my ability, as I inhale deeply to catch the slightly bitter, musky scent lingering in the air.

I memorize every detail about the conclusion to this encounter while my heart sinks silently to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …I really wish I was better at describing my daydreams… And dear Gods, forcing myself to use the word ‘penis’ drives home how infrequently you see it in fiction and how jarring the occurrence is. XD I think the avoidance is silly, though, and I was able to keep myself from editing it out multiple times by the skin of my teeth. I apologize if it detracts from the mood.


	10. Chapter 10

“…I swore to get professional psychiatric help tonight, didn’t I?” I question myself incredulously in the brief stillness of the room, before the rustling of fabric resumes and Tuesti chuckles a bit breathlessly at my side.

“It did sound like it, yes.”

I am seated against the headboard of his bed while he lies next to me, the curtains partially drawn to obscure the light but not block my line of sight to the entryway, leaving us in a dim cocoon that is relaxing, or would be if my companion stopped his incessant shifting in his attempt to escape the ‘tucking in’ I had bestowed upon him over his loud protestations and languid physical resistance. I believe he would have fought with greater vigor had he been aware of my skill at binding someone in an efficient manner, no matter the material available, and sheets are better suited for that purpose than most.

“If I die of suffocation or strangulation, _it will be your fault_ ,” he mutters angrily and jerks his legs within the slight clearance for movement I had allowed while I watch impassively.

“Duly noted and I will take full responsibility,” I respond blandly.

“And your accountability for what you have wrought will be a source of unimaginable relief and comfort to me once I am _dead_. What about clots from restricted blood flow?” He wiggles ineffectually with his entire body and aims a heated glare in my direction that only manages to look cute, framed as his head is with blankets, like that of a child willingly burrowed beneath them and peeking out. “Or damage from pinched nerves?”

“You’re being melodramatic. None of that is going to happen,” I scold with the appropriate level of disdain in my voice that such tantrums warrant.

“I am _not_ being melodramatic! People die, _all the time_ , in embarrassing, seemingly benign situations. I _know_ , because the WRO now collects the statistics and causes surrounding the deaths of nearly everyone on the planet. And,” he pauses and widens his eyes to beguiling proportions, the chocolate of their true color appearing black in the gloom and glinting with flashes of golden hues when he has the audacity to actually bat his lashes at me, “my cardiovascular system isn’t exactly at a hundred percent, for reasons you have been clever enough to discern.”

“Flattery combined with guilt trips won’t work.” My rebuke is automatic, lacking any emotion as my mind races to assess the veracity of his claim while I stare at him vacantly, before I raise one side of my mouth in a faint half-smile and state, “You’re overusing your supposed frailty.”

“Am I? You weren’t even aware that testing was still ongoing, so how can you know what, specifically, are the effects?”

“I don’t need to know that.”

“Oh?”

My irritation edges upwards at the vast amount of mockery he is able to inject into that one casual word, and I match the tone with my own. “ _Yes_ , I don’t need to know that because I know that _you_ wouldn’t risk being rendered vulnerable to _assassination by snug blankets_.”

“…They are more than _snug_. _This is a blanket prison_. Just what do you get up to in your free time, hmm? I’ll admit that bondage wouldn’t surprise me in the least, given your domineering nature.”

“ _My_ domineering nature?” I scoff at the ludicrous idea and then inform him sternly, “You might play at the genial, subservient fool but you are a complete _control freak_ , Commissioner, that micromanages _everything_ , including how people behave, even the decisions that are supposedly of their own making.”

“You give me far too much credit.”

“I _don’t_. President Shinra is good at manipulation, but _you_ … you are on another level entirely, and if I didn’t _somewhat_ trust your intentions, _I would personally terminate your life_.”

His futile tussling with the sheets has ceased and he gazes at me with apparent shock in response to my declaration, before his expression gradually brightens like the sun rising to cast its rays at dawn until he is beaming at me and once again throwing my internal equilibrium off-balance.

_**This is ridiculous! I have to stop being surprised when he doesn’t react how I expect him to. He never does!** _

“Let me out, please?” he asks innocently, doe-eyes back at full force, and then thrashes pathetically beneath the covers. “I promise to be good.”

I pointedly ignore his request and his obvious lie. “Why did my threat make you happy?” 

“’Happy’ isn’t the right word.”

“Then what is?”

“’Relieved’, I think. No one with power should be able to wield it unchecked.”

“So I am now your failsafe against corruption?”

“Something like that.”

I growl out an explicit Wutainese oath heavy with disgust and then glare fiercely at him with the same thick revulsion. “You couldn’t have picked a worse conscience, _Sir_.”

“I disagree.”

“I _know_ you do, but what I can’t understand is _why_. I follow orders _unquestioni_ -“

“Like you did when you were ordered to execute your former leader and his daughter?” The steel in his voice is clear when he cuts me off sharply and effectively silences the intro to what would have become a rant.

“That was…” I trail off uncertainly, unable to find a suitably detached justification for my past disobedience on short notice.

“That was you doing _the right thing_ , Tseng,” he insists earnestly.

“That was me being _weak_. That was me not being _fit for leadership_ ,” I snap angrily. “If my insubordination had been discovered, _all of the Turks would have been executed_. I put the life of _one man_ above that of _many_. It was foolish and sentimental and-“

“Let me OUT!” the man actually shouts to interrupt my castigation of myself and his efforts to remove his bindings are no longer feeble as he forcefully struggles beneath them. When I remain motionless, he warns caustically in a rush, “Or so help me Goddess, I will make you regret _every_ decision you have _ever_ made and _every_ action you have _ever_ taken in _your entire life_ that has led you to be here right now in this moment in time.”

I stare at him mutely, nonplussed by the hostility in his threatening outburst. Inappropriately, I begin to feel the warmth of desire creep up through my body and spread along my limbs at the sight of the passionate animation on his face, the sound of the fervency drenching his voice from his outrage. With measured cadence, I inquire, “What will you do if I release you?”

He relaxes faintly, anger still heating his expression, but his voice is calm as he replies, “I _was_ going to do something that I know you would like, but now I’m not so sure.”

“And that _was_?”

“Set me free and _perhaps_ you will find out.” The pout of his full bottom lip becomes more pronounced, but the livid gleam in his eyes is unabated in its intensity.

In spite of my better judgment, I start to tug strategically on the sheets to loosen their hold on my captive, never breaking our warring gaze as I lean over him to reach the other side. He remains still even when his bonds are slackened enough to permit escape, eyes fixed unerringly on my own, and after a moment of hesitation, I slowly pull back the covers to reveal his naked form. I am expecting retaliation, but as I rake my vision over him to admire his slender, gracefully muscled shape and the attractive contrast of the short, dark hair covering his chest and trailing down his abdomen against the backdrop of pale skin, my vigilance wavers. With a physical strength and speed I had not thought he possessed, possibly born of his simmering fury, he lunges upwards to bear my weight and shoves with enough force to simultaneously unbalance and twist me over backwards. His momentum carries him down on top of me as I land on my back, violently expelling the air from my lungs, and I dully blink up at him from my rudely reversed position.

The look of astonished triumph on his face does nothing to ease my annoyance, nor does his delighted grin that expands rapidly into existence, before fading abruptly to be replaced by a pained grimace. He rises up, straddling my hips, and rubs gingerly along his ribs. “You’re still wearing your guns. _Why_ are you still wearing your guns?” He scowls down at me. “Why are you still wearing _anything_?” he huffs out plaintively. “I want to see you. I want to see _all of you_. I bet you’re gorgeous underneath that armor of Turk propriety.” He shakes his head quickly and amends, “I _know_ you are, but I want to _see_ and _touch_ and _taste_ ,” he pauses to bend down and brush his nose along my jaw, breathing deeply, “and _smell_. Such a sadly neglected sense it is.”

“Not ‘hear’?” comes unbidden from my mouth, as my rational mind and irritation scatters to the winds with a sense of unnerving inevitability in the sudden onslaught of his passion.

He hums in pleasure, the vibration shivering through the delicate flesh below my ear as he presses a kiss to the spot and I shudder. “And _hear_. Would you let me hear you? Would you bless me with a symphony of decadent sound from that beautiful throat?” He moves to caress my neck with his lips, venturing lower in a tender crisscrossing trail of heat and stroking from his tongue that covers every exposed part of me there before he is blocked by the collar of my suit. Drawing back to meet my eyes with open hunger, he whispers, “ _Would you_?”

I open my mouth but no sound issues forth. I know I should have objections, I know that I do have objections, but I fail to grasp onto them until his takes my prolonged silence as consent and begins to unbutton my jacket. I grab his wrists and state firmly, “ _No_.”

The look he directs at me in response is disbelieving, and he questions with intense frustration, “ _Why not_?”

“You want…” I falter, aware that the excuse I am about to offer is flimsy, but I hope to appeal to his own doubts, and I continue, “to keep this casual, _professional_.”

I am correct in my assumption and the manner with which he regards me now is filled with contempt. “You insisted that _professionalism_ wouldn’t be a problem for you, and, in case you haven’t noticed, _we have blown right passed the casual stage_.”

“Maybe-“

“No ‘ _maybe_ ’, we _have_. What is your real reason?”

“Stop badgering me,” I snap.

“Stop hedging and I will!”

I crush the reflexive urge to deny the allegation and admit stiffly, “I am not comfortable with removing my clothing in someone else’s presence.”

He stares wordlessly for a moment, and then accuses, “But you said-“

“ _I know what I said_ , and I shouldn’t have. It was in the heat of the moment.”

Silence, except for that infernal ticking of the clock, descends on the room as he studies my expression closely, before his eyes flicker down over my chest in a speculative way that causes my teeth to grind. His face is carefully nonchalant when he looks back up and comments with little inflection, “I don’t mind scars.”

“Good for _you_ ,” I mutter sarcastically before I can stop myself, hating the defensive quality of my words.

“Has no one-“

“ _No one_ ,” I confirm harshly with finality to signal that the topic is not open for discussion.

He blatantly disregards my warning and begins to ramble out his thoughts. “But… It’s been five years since… You haven’t… in _five years_. There has been _no one_?”

It has, in fact, been much longer than five years since I have been with another, but I have no intention of informing him of his misconception. “Five years isn’t _that_ long,” I stress instead.

“Perhaps not, depending on your lifestyle,” he concedes doubtfully.

“And there has been a constant parade of lovers to your bed?” I raise a skeptical brow at him, knowing full-well that not even he is good enough to have kept such tendencies a secret.

“Does it look like it?” he asks with a wry quirk of his lips, indicating with an offhand gesture at the room obviously set up to accommodate solely himself, and I wonder briefly if I am the first person he has had in this bed, before I shake the train of thought off as inconsequential.

“No, but appearances can be deceiving,” I state with a significant glance at him and the tension that had been climbing dissipates as we share a meaningful, rueful smile.

“That they can be, certainly.” His expression suddenly changes from amusement to a piercing focus, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes me critically, and he speaks distractedly, “This is fine. You may keep your clothes on. I am more than capable of working around them.”

“Reeve…”

Flashing a dazzling grin down at me, he says with sincere eagerness, “Now, do you have any requests, or am I free to do _exactly_ as I please within the guidelines you have given?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started out bumpy and awkward, and might still be that way to read, I can’t accurately or objectively judge what I write, but I’ve never had so much fun writing anything before. Although I recognize that my portrayals don’t match up with the more popular ones, I adore the both of them in equal measures and I hope it shows. Also, annoys the Hells out of me, how many present him as weak and timid, but my Reeve is no one’s victim… unless he wants to be.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did a fairly thorough revision of the whole shebang, as I wasn’t comfortable moving forward with new content until I improved what I had already written. Still not happy, but I hammered out inconsistencies, resolved tonal errors, and modified some of the awkward phrasing that comes about from my loathing of overusing words… And words in general are hard to come by right now. Had to have the eldest dog in the family put down. Rest well, puppy. [Masaki, 2000-2018, Sharp as a Tack and Stubborn as a Mule, BEST FOUR-LEGGED FRIEND EVER]

“Not _exactly_ as you please,” I contradict mildly, unsettled by the manner in which he is staring down at me, as though I am a buffet of appetizers about to be devoured. I have rarely taken offense to my appearance being objectified in the past, but my previous security was bolstered by having the option to dismember any who dared to touch me without my permission. I am not even completely certain if I have given my permission to Tuesti, or if I am confident that I want to allow him the authorization to control me at this base of level. My logical reasoning is unquestioningly muddled by the release of hormones that surge through my body, the primitive craving to join flesh to another that triggers at a heightened urgency when too long denied, and my ability to determine what I actually desire is failing spectacularly in the wake of his pursuit.

_**It is always about power. Am I really willing to lose myself in this? In him? And all for what, to satisfy a trivial biological weakness?** _

My inner conflict, my diminished passion, must be visibly apparent, and would be physically detectable to him had he not been maintaining an incongruously polite distance between us. When I drag my concentration out of myself, his gaze is concerned and no longer straying from my face, but I can identify faint hints of disappointment and resignation in his demeanor.

“You think too much, don’t you? Always talking yourself out of what you want,” he muses distantly as he lazily explores my features with a vague blend of affection, amusement, and exasperation.

“We should officially change our names. I prefer ‘Kettle’, and you will be ‘Pot’,” I comment dryly. “Are you going to try to talk me back into what _you_ want now?”

He chuckles lightly and states, “We _are_ much more alike that I had thought… but _I_ claim ‘Kettle’ on account of my advanced age, _and_ ,” pausing to rise up higher, arching his back to leave his hips jutting forward at an arrogant slant, and then cocking his head to peer imperiously down at me, he continues smugly, “my obviously _superior_ position.”

I let my eyes flutter shut briefly to block out the enticing sight above, mastering my reaction to the arousing juxtaposition of his assertive nudity and my prone but fully clothed form, and emit a contemptuous groan, before informing him, “You look as _superior_ as a stripper about to cross into an even _more_ debauched line of work.”

“Oh? You disapprove of exotic dancers and sex workers, too?” His expression changes from glib curiosity to reproachful censor as he mockingly inquires, “ _Your_ line of work is more moral than an exchange of physical labor for monetary compensation between consenting adults? My my, who knew that extortion, theft, both intellectual and material, destruction of-“

“I’m starting to doubt you think I have any honor,” I interject blandly as he gathers steam, but his lecture does not falter in the least.

“-property, illegal surveillance, abduction, torture, and _murder for hire_ held such a lofty ethical standing above that of fulfilling a necessary commodity? One where those who provide the service are often abused, treated as lesser and subhuman, even _killed_ , with little compassion or understanding given to their situation, just because what they do is considered wrong by puritanical hypocrites like yourself?”

“…You’ve made your point,” I eventually reply neutrally when he concludes his rant and glares down at me fiercely.

“Have I?”

“ _Yes_ , my house is made of glass, I get that, but you actually believe it’s a ‘necessary commodity’?” Keeping my tone impartial is a struggle and I manage to with only limited success.

“Do you think people are _owed_ sex by others?”

“Of course not,” I respond evenly.

“And you know that while there are some who can remain celibate with little ill effect, the mental and physical health of the majority is significantly and negatively impacted by the lack of sexual contact?”

“…Yes.”

“No one should be required to have sex with someone if they don’t want to, but going without is detrimental to a person’s wellbeing and many are not able to find willing partners. Common sense dictates, and evidence from the ridiculous abstinence programs proves, that simply denying one’s sexual desires doesn’t make them go away or easier to control. In fact, the opposite appears to be true. So, what solution would you propose?” When I remain silent, he issues another query, “Is the concept really that awful, paying for sex legally and fairly, in comparison to the alternatives?”

Averse to accepting his point, I instead express, “I wasn’t aware you were a staunch advocate for prostitution.”

“Right, I pushed through legislation to improve the working and living conditions of sex workers simply for my own amusement.”

“I didn’t know that was… _your_ flagship.”

“And you don’t think it’s a worthy one?” he retorts acerbically.

“I…” Sensing that I am suddenly in unexpectedly dangerous territory, I hesitate to articulate my own personal feelings on the matter. While regrouping my thoughts, I ask diplomatically, “Why is it worthy to you, Sir?”

The way his mouth tightens and draws down suggests that my attempt to pacify him is not as successful as I would have liked, but his voice is balanced when he also fails to answer with a question, “You do know how horrible circumstances have been for orphans, especially since Meteorfall?”

I am thrown again by what seems to be an abrupt change of subject, yet certain it is related, and growing tired of his rhetorical interrogation despite the method’s effectiveness, I confirm with no small amount of trepidation, “…Yes.”

“And that children with no guardians are preyed upon by the worst humanity has to offer?”

“ _Yes_ , I know _all_ of this.” I complain impatiently, “Just get to where you are going. The melodrama is redundant.”

“I may have to adjust my assessment that you are intelligent.”

“ _Tuesti_ ,” I growl low in warning.

“Fine, if I must spell it out for you,” he huffs out in annoyance.

“You are a condescending _prick_ when you’re angry.”

“Something else we have in common,” he acknowledges dismissively. “Now, while many detractors of legalized prostitution cite increased trafficking statistics of minors, which is unfortunately true, the enforcement of safe environments along with protection for those that do operate within the law is still far below the standards that need to be met, resulting in better camouflage for predators.”

“You believe the execution of the current regulations is the main problem?”

“I do, and that if it is fixed, the numbers for this type of crime would drop off in time. The very fact of more trafficking, itself, indicates this, because more traffickers are being _caught_ , more victims _freed_ from their slavery, and more awareness is being raised to prevent such atrocities in the first place.”

“But wouldn’t it be likely to create an even worse existence for those that are abducted as the perpetrators are driven further underground and demand for the illicit increases?” I counter, reluctantly finding myself fascinated with the bemusing and irrelevant debate.

“Until everyone _ever_ abducted is accounted for, it would be impossible to know for sure, we can only assume, but yes, it _is_ likely and an evil that must be tolerated if eradication of the practice is to ever be achieved.”

After considering his words carefully, I summarize slowly, “Then your theory of cause and correlation for the prevalence of sexual enslavement isn’t that the frequency has increased because of legalized prostitution, but how often it is detected has? And that if the legal operation receives better oversight and safeguards, it will decline?”

“Yes!” he exclaims happily before tempering his excitement to admit, “But we won’t know for certain unless the sex industry is destigmatized and protected just like every other form of employment, something that is important in its own right.”

“And very important to you. Why?” I can concede that there may be valid deduction behind his views, but I am still puzzled by his evident enthusiasm on the issue.

He aims a patently judgmental glance at me and chides, “Do I really need a reason to be decent and support a marginalized group of people?”

“No, but this… seems _personal_.”

With a quick shake of his head, he denies the allegation, “It’s not, whatever you are implying. Actually, that I have been so blessed as to never suffer such a fate is the driving force for my actions and advocacy. It offends my delicate, sheltered sensibilities.” He winks slyly and then his face brightens to a mischievous degree I have now been taught to dread. “Do you agree with me, then? Have I won?”

I make a disgruntled sound and grant him a graceless, grudging concession, “Your opinions _might_ not be completely without merit.” At his look of self-satisfied pleasure, I grit out querulously, “ _As usual_. Have I won even a _single_ disagreement with you?”

He trails his fingers over his goatee absently with one hand and gazes down at me consideringly, humming quietly to himself, before answering with fake seriousness, “You have. Twice by bodily coercing my compliance, and once with manipulative emotional blackmail, so three times altogether. That is… ‘winning’, of a sort,” he finishes with a playful quirk to his lips.

“Excuse me for not being as adept as you at convincing others that night is day and breathing under water would be a good idea,” I remark cynically. “Why were we even arguing to begin with? If you berating me can be called that.”

“You used ‘stripper’ as an insult,” he replies promptly.

“My mistake,” I observe casually and then rake my eyes over his naked body with a heated, intentionally probing stare that lingers on his growing erection. “It _definitely_ should have been a compliment and your recovery time is impressive…” Returning to meet his bashful stare, taking satisfaction in the blush now gracing his face, I add on sardonically, “And disturbing. Talking about the exploitation of victims turns you on?”

His flush deepens, but I suspect out of indignation as he glares darkly and crossly corrects me with, “No, it does _not_. I am turned on by _arguing_ with you, or as you put it, _berating you_.”

Fighting to keep from betraying my amusement, I declare with mock fury, “ _I knew it_ ,” and then begin to reach for his cock, only to end up glowering as he halts my attempt well out of touching distance with a hand around my wrist.

When I direct my forbidding gaze up to his own, he vows firmly, “If you don’t let me get _you_ off, _no one_ is getting off any more tonight.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“ _Gaia, Tseng_ ,” he utters with enough thick, sharp frustration to startle me and I reflexively try to pull from his grasp, but he tightens his grip. “Do you want to be here or not? You forced yourself into my home and now into my bed, but you keep going hot and then cold! _Make up your mind_.”

_**Have I been the one doing all of the pushing? No, he… he asked, begged, to kiss me and…** _

I quickly scour my memories of the recent events that led to this moment and feel the bottom of my stomach drop with a nauseous immediacy as a sickening, mounting disquiet settles in its place.

_**That’s it. He’s teased and flirted and provoked and repeatedly told me to leave him alone. The rest… the intimidation, the violation of boundaries, the violence, the assault… has been me.** _

“Reeve, I’m sorry.”

“Now who’s apologizing too much?” he quips.

“I’m serious,” I insist solemnly, stuffing down the irritation that tries to rear its head at his baiting.

“And why are you sorry? What have you done that’s managed to escape my _very_ up close and personal attention?” Placing his hands to either side of my head on the pillow and leaning in closer to demonstrate his proximity, he maintains his humorous air in insulting denial of my gravity.

“May I explain without being interrupted?”

His forehead creases as he examines my expression thoroughly and the joking shine drains from him as he finally reciprocates my somber manner, before nodding and agreeing to my request, “Of course.”

“There is no excuse for how I have mistreated you,” I start and have to narrow my eyes at him when he immediately opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, as is his custom, but he obediently shuts it without a word in response. “You have been upfront, _I think_ , about what you want from me and I have trampled, _violently_ , all over what you have chosen. I have violated your consent and ignored your reasons, which, no matter how much I might disagree with, _are_ valid because they are _yours_ and should be respected. I should have respected _you_ , and I failed in that so greatly I know no apology can ever begin to make amends, but I _swear_ to you, from this moment forward, I will try to show you the respect and consideration you deserve.”

During my speech, his features had arranged themselves into a studied, careful vacancy and I can read nothing from him. As the seconds tick by and I make a halfhearted plan in the back of my mind to seek out and destroy the clock, the churning unease within me steadily escalates when he merely stares down at me with that troubling blankness.

Unable to handle more of his lack of response, I prompt quietly, “Reeve?”

“Yes? Are you done? May I speak now?”

I had expected several reactions but the anger I can hear in his clipped voice was no one of them, and I cautiously tell him, “Yes, I’m done.”

“ _Good_ , because I’m sick of listening to you place the blame for everything that’s happened on yourself. It takes two to tango, you know.”

The barrier I have locked my ire behind begins to collapse, the emotion rising up in defense against his own, and my tone is sharp when I reply, “I _know_ that, but only _one_ to _abuse_.”

“You have _not_ been abusing me! If anything, it’s the other way around!” he proclaims loudly. “It’s not all in your head, Tseng, I _have_ been _playing_ with you!”

“I _know_ that, too!” My voice climbs to match his volume, but I reel it back in and continue with relative composure, “But just because you were _asking for it_ , doesn’t justify my behavior.”

“It doesn't? Two seconds, please,” he says, causing me to scowl in confusion, before abruptly pushing himself upright and crawling off of me, and then backwards off of the bed.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I rise to a seated position and watch him kneel on the floor, apparently searching for something in the pockets of his discarded slacks.

“You’ll see, and then you might kill me,” he states brightly and utters a strange, choked laugh. “You are… feeling a little more in control of yourself now, are you not?”

_**No, he wouldn’t do that!** _

In spite of my automatic rejection of the implication in his words, what can only be described as terror flares brilliantly through my entire body momentarily and quickly burns itself out to be replaced with a numbing shock that I welcome with gratitude.

Eventually, he stands and turns to face me, his hunt obviously complete, and when he timidly reveals an activated Materia glowing radiantly in the palm of his hand, I feel nothing at all.


	12. Chapter 12

I take in the appearance of the magical orb with aloof analysis, noting that it is smaller than normal Materia, barely the size of a marble, and emitting a pale pink sheen as darker magenta bolts flicker within the deep, condensed purple of the center. The way the colors shift and swirl is reminiscent of the more volatile Summons, but the fact of its evident capacity to remain operational without being equipped in some fashion is not one I have encountered.

“That is Independent Materia, not Command, but I don’t recognize it,” I apprise objectively, my eyes fixated on the tiny globe with an inner compulsion I can now differentiate from natural impulse. “A personal design of your own?”

“It is. A modification of a Chocobo Lure, actually. I have been interested in the properties of that Materia for quite a while, how it is able to attract a specific type of creature to the exclusion of others. Not many give the ability much thought, but it seems to be rare, possibly entirely unique, among all Materia,” he explains banally, his voice having regained his customary pleasant timbre and cadence.

I flatly reply, “Fascinating. How does it function without an outside energy source?”

“Now that is something I am curious about, myself. It appears to be a side effect of Materia compression, but has only shown up in those of a more… subtle, _weaker_ nature, and I suspect, given enough use, it will stop working altogether. A temporary, self-powered Materia, so to speak.”

“I see. What, exactly, does it do?”

“It… doesn’t _control_ people. It’s not a Manipulate, but it does…” When he trails off, I wait, neither patiently nor impatiently, for his prevarication to end, and after a few moments he carries on, “It _influences_ someone’s decisions, in that it intensifies whatever inclinations are already present. Basically… it… lowers the inhibitions of the selected target.”

“You have created a date rape Materia.”

“That is _not_ what I made it for!” he cries out adamantly to refute the claim, before tempering himself and disclosing with a convincing display of shame, “Or, at least, that is _never_ what I intended to use it for. Tseng, I’m so sor-“

“I don’t want to hear it,” I cut off his apology with no inflection. “How long have you been using it on me? Since I arrived in Edge?”

“No, just tonight, _I swear_ , and even then, at first I… I activated it because I wanted…”

After the silence extends for several minutes in which I stare with unwavering focus at the object of our discussion and it becomes plain that he is not going to resume, I reluctantly drag my gaze from his outstretched palm up to his face and ask, “What did you want?”

“I wanted to know if I could trust you fully.” Breathing out a long-suffering sigh, he distractedly runs his empty hand through his wildly askew hair and mutters ruefully, “But all I have learned is that I can’t trust myself.”

“That’s not all.”

The pain that floods his expression in reaction, filling him with a mute and pleading light, seems so genuine that I begin to feel the involuntary stirrings of a faint yearning to believe his remorse as he looks at me closely. “I honestly… I didn’t think that… I _thought_ that you and Elena were… That _you_ were completely _straight_ and it never even occurred to me to worry about any actual attraction on your part.”

“ _Really_ ,” I state emphatically, and when I find my sight unerringly attempting to return to the Materia, I snap, “Turn that off.”

He complies immediately and the luminous sphere winks into a glittering and dusky inert silhouette. Closing his fingers around it and lowering his arm, he repeats in confirmation, “Really.”

“You thought I was faking?”

“Do you think I’m blind?” he inquires instead of answering. When I give no indication of responding other than a tensing of my facial features, he presses further, “Do you think I can’t see that you have decided to make me some sort of, of personal _mission_? You don’t cater to _anyone_ without a reason, and yet you’ve been oh so _accommodating_ of nearly _everything_ I’ve thrown at you. Listening _attentively_ to my babbling, trying to make me laugh, even giving me a back rub, for Shiva’s sake! I know that… you are capable of doing things you don’t want to, sacrificing your values, if you believe the goal to be worth the cost.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds obvious, but regardless of what you think I’m capable of, I’m not a _whore_ ,” I bite out and realize instantly that it is not a prudent selection of words.

The smile that graces his lips is bitter and mocking. “ _Of course_ you are not a whore. _Whoring_ is so far below the flawless standards of a respectable individual such as yourself.”

“Are you trying to get me to forgive you or piss me off more?’

“Two wrongs don’t make a right, and I’m not going to simply tolerate your bigotry because I feel guilty. And would you be willing to forgive me? _Can_ something like this be forgiven? Am I not wasting my time?”

“I don’t know, but heckling me isn’t helping your case.”

“I suppose not… _Is_ there a way I can make it up to you? Just say the word and I will do- Well, not _anything_ , but I can’t think of much that I would refuse you right now.” The skin around his eyes crinkles with an amusement that fails to wholly chase away the melancholy in their depths and he offers me a crooked grin as he remarks, “I have no doubt that you could come up with a suitable _punishment_ for my transgression.”

I groan low in my throat and declare gruffly, “Tuesti, _too soon_.”

“I’m sorry. You’re positively correct, that was inappropriate. The last thing I want to do is to diminish your… how you feel, but humor is a defense mechanism of mine and it’s a habit that tends to crop up in some of the worst situations.” The twist to his mouth becomes self-deprecating and he adds, “Especially when I’m nervous.”

“I don’t know how I feel yet. I need time to process this.”

“Of course! _Absolutely_. Take all the time you need! There is no rush whatsoev-“

“Tuesti!” I bark harshly and he shuts up. “Too much contrition.”

“Tell me how you want me to behave, then,” he responds with a tinge of petulance.

“Like _yourself_ , if you even know who that is.”

He utters a slightly shrill laugh and then replies airily, “I don’t believe I do, not anymore.”

I shake my head, the weight of everything that has transpired seeming to crash down upon me in an instant and any motivation I have inside to deal further with his idiosyncrasies departs, leaving behind little but a deep-seated exhaustion. “You wear me out and it’s late.” I glance briefly at my watch and grimace, amending, “ _Early_ , almost four in the morning, but we should be able to manage a couple hours of sleep. Come to bed.”

“What?” His eyes widen to an even greater extent than the comedic miens I have already born witness to, astonishment endearingly clear.

“Come. To. Bed,” I repeat my order sternly.

“But, you can’t want to sleep together, not now.”

“What did I say about telling me what I want?”

“Yes, but… you… you are utterly perplexing,” he concludes his thought with a pointedly dubious stare.

“Then we’re even. Get over here,” I demand and wave at his previously vacated spot near the wall, the blankets still bunched up where I had cast them aside after freeing him in what seems like a lifetime ago. When he continues to stand motionless, I taunt, “Unless you’re afraid?”

“No, I just don’t- _Why_? I don’t understand why you are willing to stay here or let me stay with you.”

Sighing, I reach through the concealed openings of my jacket that allow for a cross draw and retrieve the guns from my shoulder holster with practiced efficiency, before automatically checking that the safeties are engaged and sliding both firearms under my pillow. There are more weapons hidden strategically beneath my clothing, but nothing of a bulk that will disturb my comfort significantly. I return my gaze to Tuesti as I smooth down the fabric of my suit and mutter, “Always have to know everything.”

“Not _everything_ , but I would like to know _this_. Please explain,” he implores.

“How I end up feeling doesn’t matter, ultimately,” I say dismissively, wanting nothing more in this moment than to terminate our conversation and rest.

“It _does_ matter.”

“ _No_ , it _doesn’t_. Whatever you do to me personally doesn’t change anything. I still plan to protect you, help out with the mess at the WRO however possible, but most importantly, _keep you sane_ , if I can.”

“Tseng…”

“I might seek revenge for what you have done, I might not. _I don’t know_. What I _do_ know is that I want us to stop talking, I want to try to get some sleep, and I want you to join me here, where I can keep a close eye on you, _right now_.” I pause and then alter my instructions for him, “Wait, silence your clock first.”

Mystified, he states deliberately, “My clock is digital and doesn’t make any noise except when the alarm goes off.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t- _What_ is ticking?” I growl accusingly as a habitual tendril of apprehension shivers down my spine in reaction to an unidentified mechanical sound.

“Oh, _that_!”

“Yes, _that_.”

“That would be my metronome. You don’t like it?”

“I _hate_ it and want it to be _silent_.”

His eyes shining with restrained mirth, he approaches a cabinet set against the wall not far from the bed and pulls one of its doors open to reveal the current bane to my enjoyment of peace and total quiet. The pendulum swings back and forth with deceptive innocence until he catches it gently and blessedly halts the maddeningly repetitious clicking. Tension that I had not been fully conscious of eases from my body when the mental echoes taper off and a complete hush descends on the room.

“ _Thank you_ ,” I breathe with sincere and heartfelt appreciation.

Muffled chuckles emerge from him as he covers his face with a hand while holding onto the shelf with the other and leans into the furniture for balance. The spectacle he presents should be ridiculous, but as I trace over the span of his profile, admiring how the rumpled dress shirt gapes apart to expose glimpses of his lean torso as his shoulders shake with his failed attempts of suppression, how taut and graceful the length of his long legs appear, a faint resonance of my earlier desire resurfaces. When he turns slightly, baring more of his flesh to my view with a proficiency that is too artful to be accidental, I direct my sight up to find his head slanted towards me. His expression is half-concealed in shadow but the solemn heat there is unambiguous.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want anything else from me?” he questions softly.

“For you to stop trying to seduce me,” I answer decisively with no hesitation or uncertainty in my voice.

The come-hither quality of his demeanor vanishes with an abruptness that is unnerving and is replaced with a neutral nonchalance as he straightens his posture, before he agrees lightly, “As you wish. Would you like for me to get dressed?”

Now I do hesitate, but it is brief and I allow, “No, that’s fine.”

He nods slowly, his eyes skating over my form for a moment, before he squares his shoulders and approaches the bed resolutely. Pausing to look down at me with another unreadable glance, he climbs onto the mattress and then over my legs without any inadvertent contact between us. I continue to watch him with detached objectivity as he lies down, reaching to tug the sheets up to cover his nakedness, and when he has settled, I scoot forward enough to provide adequate clearance to lower myself to my back beside him.

“Well, this is definitely not awkward,” he eventually murmurs to break the relaxing stillness while I gaze up at the pleated material of the canopy, and I internally curse all of the choices I have ever made.

I roll onto my side and struggle not to react to how close our faces are brought to each other by the movement, steadfastly ignoring the warm exhalations of his breathing against my skin. I glower at him as effectively as I am able to in this compromising position and warn, “The next word out of your mouth will result in you being gagged _and_ bound again, if necessary.”

His lips part and I ready my body in preparation of fulfilling my threat, but he presses them back firmly together and only smiles at me affectionately instead, the dilation of his pupils from the low illumination making his appearance even more annoyingly cute as he nestles his head further into his pillow.

I brutally crush the tenderness that starts to well up within in response to the sight, along with my disappointment at his easy acquiescence, and then inform him evenly, “You need to decide what kind of master you are going to be and I will adjust my own behavior accordingly.”

Closing my eyes to his shocked surprise, I savor the silence that ensues.


	13. Chapter 13

I wake to a thunderous blaring of sound issuing from above where I am lying, instantly cognitive and alert to potential danger as awareness of my present location reasserts itself. The visual ambience of the room is unchanged due to the lack of windows, but Tuesti has succeeded in moving to cling to my body like a limpet during the fleeting respite, which appears to have alleviated my fatigue only marginally, while I have shifted to my customary resting position on my back as I slept. The noise that roused me is technically what could be referred to as music, containing a pulsing, repetitious beat underlining a computer-generated score possessing little creativity and personalized composition other than how the disparate chords are woven together, and a sultry-voiced singer crooning about her independence and the many attributes she has that transcend beyond the physical, yet simultaneously emphasizing the utmost importance of her appearance with no sense of irony.

_**I don’t know which is the lesser of two evils, this new age of faux depth and enlightenment or the flagrant shallowness of yesteryear.** _

Giving the inane mental debate minimal thought, I decide that the absence of both is preferable as my coherency finishes swimming to the surface and I allow myself the brief luxury of enjoying the involuntary cuddling I am being subjected to. My bedmate is currently spread out partially on his stomach and side, an arm and a leg thrown across my chest and thighs, respectively, clutching himself to me with a fierceness that is captivating and disturbing in equal measures. Soft gusts of air moisten the skin of my throat at steady intervals as he nuzzles his head deeper into the hollow created by my neck and shoulder, no doubt in an attempt to escape the discordant racket encroaching on his consciousness, and tightens his hold.

I can feel the firm swelling of his arousal pressing against my hip, but I endure the sensation stoically and warn him with a raised graveled tenor, “Your alarm has a _very_ limited remaining existence if you don’t shut it off soon.”

“Must you threaten to destroy my belongings?” he mutters huskily, barely discernible in the din.

“The annoying ones, yes, which you seem to have an endless supply of.”

“Endless? My metronome and clock are an _endless supply_?”

“Your Cait Sith supply is endless,” I elevate my voice further to be heard as a pop ‘song’ that is miraculously more irritating supplants the previous.

“You… After all that Cait has done for the Turks and Shinra Corporation, you think he’s _annoying_?!” Tuesti shouts into my ear with unnecessary volume and I detect the faint spasm of a tic starting to take up residence along my cheek as my jaw clenches.

“He uses a _megaphone_ to coordinate attacks, rides a giant, lumbering moogle, and speaks in that ludicrous accent! _He is the epitome of annoying_!” I yell back while glaring up at the bed’s awning ceiling. “Turn off the radio!”

With an unhappy grumble and inarticulate swearing, he gracelessly leverages himself up until he is braced on his forearms above me, his knee slipping between my own in the process, and he spares an intense glance down at my face before balancing on one arm and reaching to slide open the covering of the shelving unit set into the headboard. After a moment of his groping within the alcove, the music breaks off in the middle of the agitatingly spastic chorus, to my immense relief. When he looks down again, I expect him to take advantage of his positioning, but he simply tilts to the side instead and collapses next to me in an inelegant, languid sprawl that shakes the mattress.

Into the blessed quiet, he complains softly, “It pains me considerably that you find my greatest invention to be a bothersome nuisance… and that you think the accent of my ancestors is _ludicrous_.”

“You’ll get over it,” I counter blandly.

“Do you have noise sensitivity?” he asks idly, indignation outwardly let go for the moment, and begins to stretch, sluggishly twining and contorting his body in a manner that I have difficulty determining to be alluring or comical.

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“ _Yes_ ,” I insist irritably.

“How have you managed to keep from murdering Reno all of these years?”

“Diligence, an iron will, recitation of the tenets of the ten faces of Da Chao, and having conditioned myself to consider the extra workload I would be forced to take on if I killed him whenever I felt the urge to end his life,” I answer dryly while I study the demonstration of the apparent flexibility of his form, my suspicion mounting that he is putting on the display for my benefit and not to ease any stiffness from his muscles or joints.

“An urge that is frequent, I assume?”

“ _Extremely_ frequent. That is why I am proficient at resisting.”

“So I have _him_ to _thank_ for your self-control?” His tone is displeased and slightly winded around the question as he rests temporarily while hugging the mound of blankets he is draped over, his legs kicking into the air like an adolescent during a slumber party. I am able to conclude that his movements are ridiculous rather than enticing, but that fails to stop my eyes from training attentively on them when he resumes his sinuously amusing presentation.

Compartmentalizing and blocking my reaction to the stimuli I am observing, I reprimand him sharply, “Don’t insult my self-control or my subordinate. You have no right to, not after the stunt you pulled.” 

He abandons his impromptu yoga session, going limp beside me, before replying humbly, “Too true.”

My emotions regarding the violation remain flattened and hazy, indicating that I have disassociated from the matter almost completely, but I choose to ignore the ill effects such an approach can cause and note, “I expected you to be a voyeur, not an exhibitionist.”

“And you would be correct.”

“Then why the shows?”

“ _Performing_ , as you seem to be implying, for _one_ person is hardly what I would call a ‘show’. In fact, I would say it is a normal part of healthy foreplay,” he declares confidently and rolls from his back to his side to face in my direction, curling his hands up under his chin as he stares at me intently.

“You don’t seem embarrassed.”

“Should I be?”

“No, but…” In the lull that follows, I hunt for a rational explanation for exactly why his behavior strikes me as unusual and vocalize my misgivings haltingly, “You have made comments about your appearance that suggest that… you are unhappy with how you look?”

He shrugs casually and admits, “I am.”

“Then why- Is this all fake? All an act?”

“Partly, I guess, as much as any front we put up to please others is. You’re really reading too much into everything I do, coming up with ulterior motives that don’t even exist. Since you are the one who has to look at me, it’s your opinion that counts. It’s as simple as that.” Tucking his head down at an angle in order to gaze up at me coyly, a teasing smile curving his lips, he murmurs, “And you like what you see.”

I heave out a tired sigh and then push myself up to sit on the bed, staring down at the maddeningly inconsistent and confusing man upon which such an excessive degree of responsibility lies. “I’m leaving.”

“You won’t stay for breakfast? I’m not a bad cook and you can use the shower while I whip something up,” he proposes with a clear strand of hopefulness threading his voice.

“No.”

“I can’t even tempt you with coffee? Freshly ground Mideelian Spring brewed to perfection and a currant scone to compliment the nutty flavor?”

“ _Tuesti_ ,” I scold harshly, “ _no_. I need to relax and that means I need to be _away from you_.” The optimistic glow in his expression dims at my callous statement and I discount my inherent compulsion to try to brighten it again.

“I understand,” he states serenely.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, before turning towards him once more and methodically casting my gaze along his nude figure in what I fully recognize might be my last opportunity to do so. When I finally bring my sight up to his face, our eyes lock in serious regard for an unknown length of time that is strangely poignant in a way I refuse to contemplate, and then I move to exit the room with no partings words or farewell and he offers none in return.

* * *

“Report back immediately once you make contact,” I order smoothly and snap the PHS closed without waiting for confirmation.

Pocketing the device absently, I reorient my focus on the tableau spread out below my vantage point on the rooftop of a blocky, nondescript moderate-rise building containing numerous offices of wide variety and little significance, which provides adequate explanation for my presence to and from my current location. The dull roar of traffic, the buzz of countless voices mingled together, along with the intermittent clangs and clashes of everyday activities, soothes my hearing with its predictable commonality while I scan for anything out of the ordinary and my mind sorts through the operations I have set into motion. As the seconds tick by and the arranged timing for our rendezvous passes, I clamp tight to the fraying threads of my limited patience and begin to examine the actions I have yet to nudge into reality for possible errors.

A muffled metallic thud, followed by a swirl of air that blows my hair gently into disarray before it obediently resettles to its customary immaculate cascade, signals the arrival of the person I am here to meet.

“You’re late,” I remark evenly, managing to keep my tone neutral.

“…I was delayed.”

“Your ability to point out the obvious remains unmatched.”

Again there is a pause, before a question is issued in that distinctive rough bass, “…Why are you angry?”

“I have things I need to get done and you are impeding my progress,” I apprise him curtly, uncertain if the route I have decided on is the best method in which to deal with the reticent former Turk, but I am still willing to risk his ire to bypass his habit of vacillating.

“You asked me to be here and I am,” he growls in response.

Reassured at the simplicity and ease of provoking him, a tactic I have not attempted in the past, I accept his rebuke politely, “You’re right. I appreciate that you came.”

“Why did you request a secret meeting?”

“You didn’t tell anyone you were going to be here?” I ask in lieu of an answer. The instructions I had given to my undercover reconnaissance agent to deliver to Valentine had been explicit on the matter of discretion.

“ _No_. Explain yourself, _now_ ,” he demands and then cautions, “or I’m leaving.”

“Fine. Are you aware of the upheaval currently playing out within the WRO?”

“What?”

I groan low in my throat with curbed frustration and raise a hand to briefly pinch the bridge of my nose, before dropping my arm back to my side. Red tattered cloth flutters into my vision as a gust of wind surges across the roof, the fleeting gale streaming to create a muted whistling between the protrusions of rotating vent turbines and humming generators, and I feel an entirely unwelcome burst of jealousy as I recall Tuesti’s tale of how he had worn that same material against his bare skin.

_**I will not be jealous of an overdramatic rag or its theatrical owner. I have no right to be jealous about anything concerning Tuesti.** _

Not wholly convinced that my feelings are originating from an appropriate source, I allow the resentment to creep into my voice as I fire off two pointed inquiries in quick succession, “Do you consider the Commissioner your friend? Do you even care what becomes of the man?” When no verbal response is forthcoming, I turn my head towards the sniper and find him gazing back at me with mild, yet evident surprise etched into his normally impassive face, but his eyes narrow to a familiar glare as I prompt shortly, “ _Do you_?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“It’s a very simple question.”

“You haven’t answered any of mine, why should I answer yours?” he retorts gruffly, and childishly, in my opinion.

“ _Because_ ,” I stress the word, drawing it out mockingly, and then continue brusquely, “my questions are actually important, Valentine.”

We engage in an absurd staring contest with one another as I await the result of my open hostility, my countenance fixed in unyielding disapproval while his wavers from perplexity to irritation. That I literally owe him my life, the debt I have not repaid an uncomfortable weight in my chest, and have never confronted him personally, heightens my already elevated level of acuity. I calmly speculate on whether I have overstepped his boundaries and if a swift end, either a plunge from the ledge we stand on or a bullet from his gun, will greet me momentarily, a prospect that is almost appealing.

_**There are a lot worse ways to die.** _

His eternally youthful visage eventually slides into a vacancy that reveals nothing and he concisely confirms, “Reeve is my friend.”

“ _Good_. He needs one right now,” I state definitively, but I hesitate to share the information that is my real reason for seeking to enlist the aid of the most powerful member of AVALANCHE, and my annoyance at my own indecision is what ultimately drives out further elaboration. “But despite your claim, it has apparently escaped your notice that your _friend’s_ health is deteriorating rapidly, both physically _and_ mentally, and that he is being besieged by enemies from within the very organization he helms.”

A malicious, bitter jolt of satisfaction dances down my spine at the vague look of alarmed guilt that steals over his expression and he softly commands, “Tell me what you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before it was bastardized into a Scottish/Irish amalgam to fit the etymology of the name, Cait Sith’s original accent, used in the first game, was based on the Kansai dialect of Japan, which is considered a rougher, less proper form of Japanese. While I like the exaggerated brogue alright, I prefer the Kansai region origin, as that area is supposed to mirror where Reeve is from.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the internal dialogue has decreased in frequency, it occurred to me that I might want to cut it out completely. I compiled a doc of only his thoughts, though, and HOLY SHIT, while most are just throwaway insights into Tseng’s character, several contain the bulk of the foreshadowing for where the plot is headed, so they’re sticking around… I know, I know, shocking to consider there’s a plot, but it does have one that I’ve almost completely mapped out. Gonna be a longer journey than I’d like, which is a bit frustrating, but I want to keep the slow pace, as the dynamics I’m setting up, along with the personal exposés, are my main focus. On a different note, at six feet, V’s height is the only one of the three listed explicitly, and Square has monkeyed with everybody’s height across the board to match up with American averages. Tseng looks roughly as tall as Zack in Crisis Core at six three, but was six even in the original. Reeve is a little shorter than Vincent in Dirge, and I’m placing him at five ten. Doesn’t matter much, but helps me describe positioning, which I think the occasional mentioning of makes it easier to imagine a scene in your head. The rare use of highly detailed descriptions is intentional. I could happily ramble on as much as I’m doing here, wax poetically about how pretty the boys are, but nothing I write would ever come close to what the mind can conjure and beauty will always be in the eye of the beholder.

“First, I want something from you,” I state plainly and turn to face Valentine directly, our sight aligning perfectly due to our identical heights.

The already stern line of his mouth tightens further as he grumbles, “I’m not accepting demands from you.”

“Veld has told me you are a man of your word. Is that true?” I ask, my referencing of his former partner and close friend a calculated move.

He stares at me blankly for a moment, his patently inscrutable appearance having been reconstructed to enshroud him with maximum force. “…Yes.”

“What I want from you is your word that anything I say to you regarding this matter, regarding the Commissioner, is kept to yourself and not shared with _anyone_ , especially not Kisaragi.”

“Yuffie can help.”

I give a quick shake of my head in negation. “She is too entangled with the WRO, while you have maintained your distance.” After pausing briefly, I add on, “Predictably,” and his eyes narrow slightly in response.

“I’ll give you my word if you stop trying to make me angry.”

_**Thank the Promised Land, he hasn’t lost all of his ability to recognize when his emotions are being influenced. I hope his other Turk skills are also up to par.** _

“If you prove that you don’t need to be prodded, I will,” I concede with ill grace.

“I have nothing to prove to you,” he contends grimly.

Raising an eyebrow sardonically, I cast an unimpressed glance down his leather-clad figure and then back up to refocus on his face. “You might have everybody else on the Planet eating out of the palm of your hand, Valentine, but my judgment is more discerning. All you have proven is that you’re good at killing things.”

In what might merely be wishful thinking on my part, I detect a minute tensing in his posture from the impact of my assertion.

_**Tuesti would be proud… and furious that I am manipulating his pet world-saver in such a way.** _

My lips twitch faintly as I fight back the desire to smile malevolently and I draw my patience about myself for the duration, passively watching the gunman either deliberate on my words or delve into the past of his memories to no doubt obsessively condemn his previous conduct and perceived mistakes internally.

_**Probably both. How he hasn’t driven himself insane with the constant self-flagellation is a mystery.** _

The minutes roll by and I am glad that I had set aside ample time for this encounter, even as my irritation level rises with the delay. At last, a semblance of life chases away the unnerving stillness of his countenance and a present awareness returns to the striking crimson irises as he examines me closely, an uncomfortably penetrating appraisal I tolerate indifferently.

“…You have my word,” he vows solemnly.

“Thank you,” I respond graciously, my appreciation sincere even while I resist the impulse to criticize his dramatic seriousness, before beginning my explanation, “Tuesti has been evading numerous attempts on his life for, in his own words, ‘quite some time’. His-”

He interrupts with, “Why did he share that with you?”

‘And not with me’, I finish his question in my head, and mildly taunt, “ _That_ is what you consider to be the central concern here?”

“No, but it’s… worrying.”

“’Worrying’? How so? That he didn’t disclose this information to you or that he chose me as the recipient instead?”

“Both. Turks are only loyal to Shinra.”

I scoff lightly and refute, “Not _always_ , but if you’re really worried about my involvement, I assure you that President Shinra _is_ loyal to the WRO, however reluctant and ill-fitting that loyalty might be.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe, but let’s at least pretend to be on the same side or we will accomplish nothing,” I declare succinctly. When it becomes obvious that he is not going to say anything more about my lack of trustworthiness, I take his silence for agreement and move on, “His mechanical decoys _were_ providing sufficient protection until one fell into enemy hands. I doubt I need to tell you how potentially catastrophic it is to have that technology stolen by hostile entities, but you _must_ be on guard against his creations.”

“Do you know why he doesn’t want AVALANCHE‘s help?”

_**He isn’t stupid, I know that, but the questions he asks definitely are.** _

Stamping down on my annoyance, I manage to answer steadily, “Given his do-gooder mentality, I suspect because he doesn’t want to put any of you in danger. So far, he is the only one being targeted.”

“You will be targeted now,” he points out impassively.

“I know, but that doesn’t matter,” I insist, my tone emphatically unconcerned.

Ignoring my implication, he refuses to let the subject drop and inquires, “Why are you willing to risk yourself for Reeve?”

Constrained rage prickles into the forefront of my brain as I reflect on just how much of myself I am risking for Tuesti, and my voice is harder than I would prefer when I reply, “I may not always see eye to eye with him, we’ve had our differences in the past, but I can’t deny that he is a competent leader and someone worthy of my respect.”

Again, he studies me with that piercing stare, seemingly in an attempt to burrow beneath my skin and unlock my secrets with his sight alone, and I school my features into careful neutrality under the weight of his inspection. Once he chooses to speak, all he says is, “What do you want me to do?”

“I’m sure you have your own ideas and that you’ll do whatever you want to anyway, but I would like for you to leave the Commissioner’s safety to me and focus on figuring out who is responsible for the attacks. My presence is only tolerated by the organization, not celebrated as yours is, and you are surprisingly skilled at remaining unseen,” I remark and spare quick, dubious glances at his cloak and metal gauntlet, falling momentarily to the garish golden sabatons adorning his feet before raising my eyes back up to his.

Showing no visible reaction to my implicit insult, he suggests, “You should contact Veld.”

“I already have.”

“And?”

“And if you want to know what he’s up to, ask him yourself,” I riposte coolly, knowing full well that he has been avoiding my aging mentor just as much as he does everybody, perhaps more.

“I’m going to ask Reeve why he trusts you,” he pledges abruptly, likely with the sole purpose of provocation.

Keen to disabuse him of that ill-advised notion, I snap, “ _No_. Do _not_ speak to him about this, not a _single_ word.”

“I want to know if there’s any truth to what you have said.”

“ _Then open your eyes_. You won’t have to talk to him to see what’s going on,” I grit out forcefully, but the clear suspicion he is now regarding me with reveals that my insistent protests are working against my favor, digging the hole deeper. Switching tactics, I explain, “It will make him mad if he finds out I have broken his confidence. Worse, he would probably close himself off even more. I think I might be the _only_ person he has confided in.”

“You freely admit to breaking his confidence and I’m supposed to trust you?” All inflection is absent from his reverberating speech, but auditory mockery is unnecessary for driving home his disdain.

“No, you should trust your own observations to determine the validity of my account of the situation before deciding whether to bring my indiscretion to Tuesti’s attention,” I clarify, making an effort to appeal to his pride and common sense. “You don’t like me or trust me and that’s fine, but he’s paranoid to the point of being a threat to himself. We can’t afford to have him stonewall me.”

“All I have is your word on this?”

A sharp gust buffets us, sending my hair and the long train of his worn mantle sailing out sideways to whirl chaotically on the current like disparate banners flapping in the wind, a metaphor that does little to ease my discomfort at the prospect of allying with such a capricious individual, one whose battles with his inner demons, both real and imagined, remain an ongoing issue. Having allowed him his ruminations during this summit, I grant myself the same courtesy as time stretches to a taut diaphanous cord in the pale sunlight slipping through the billowy cloud cover above us. If he is bothered by the postponement of our conversation while I gather my thoughts, it doesn’t show and he stands as motionless as a piece of statuary.

_**Is this the right decision?** _

Once my debate with myself is finished, I shatter the silence with an admission that is long overdue, “I am grateful that you rescued us. I owe you, Valentine, and I give you my word that my intentions are strictly to preserve the longevity of the Commissioner.”

“I might accept that… if you tell me why.” I bite back a curse at his dogged determination to expose my motivations, but I am not afforded a chance to tear into his obstinance as he continues, “Why is Reeve so important to you?”

_**And that is the true crux of the matter, isn’t it?** _

In a split-second, I change my mind about a resolution I had made to not reveal anything regarding the baser nature of my recent interactions with Tuesti.

_**If there’s one thing he’s clueless about, it’s romance. Even the blind could see that.** _

“It’s none of your business, and has little bearing on the current problem, but we are in a relationship.” When I distinguish no comprehension dawning in his gaze, I elaborate bluntly, “A sexual relationship,” and feel a burst of spiteful pleasure as he recoils slightly.

“…You’re not gay.”

“Why does everyone seem so certain of my orientation?” I denounce in annoyance, and then banally observe, “I notice you didn’t claim that _he_ isn’t gay.” The look of ambiguous embarrassment that graces his features in response sets off a low alarm bell of warning in my head.

_**Was there more to Tuesti’s recount of his drunken cape robbery than he let on?** _

“I don’t speculate about people’s orientation,” he asserts brusquely. “But I was under the impression that… you and Elena-“

“May Bahamut strike down all idiots on the Planet!” I swear vehemently. “There wouldn’t be many survivors, but I might have some _peace_ then.” Tempering my ire and conveniently ignoring my ancient lapse of judgment in requesting a date from my employee, an endeavor which was mercifully aborted, I resume with greater calm, “I have never engaged in inappropriate behavior with my subordinate, _ever_.”

“I… see.”

“Do you?” I harp tightly and glare at him with icy derision. “Do you _see why_ Tuesti’s welfare might be of some concern to me?”

He watches me as though I have become a venomous serpent capable of grievous injury and I am mollified by his apparent display of apprehension, before he replies quietly, “…Yes.”

“And will you help me help him?” I demand curtly, wanting his overt, verbal compliance to the strategy.

“Do you care about him?” he probes mildly, but I understand the significance of his question despite his cautious projection of detachment.

I breathe out a small sigh and allow a fraction of the weariness that has latched deep into my soul to show in my expression, before answering with as much honesty as I can muster, “Unfortunately, I do.”

After my reluctant confession, he glances at the ground for an irritatingly lengthy breadth of time, furtively casting his eyes over the strewn pebbled surface as the breeze picks up to a steadier gale, ruffling our personal effects with delicate intensity, and then returns his focus to my face and assesses my portrayal of stoic authenticity with thoughtful precision. I stand firm against his viewing, the tentative quality of my conviction that my performance is strong enough to fool his observation absent from my demeanor.

“…I will,” he finally agrees with a melodic resonance barely audible above the growing lamentation of the air surrounding us.

The unmistakable declaration in his voice serves to settle my reservations, and as unwelcome as the sensation is, I cannot prevent the bolstering uplift on my drained spirits at the acquisition of such a formidable partner, no matter how fickle his whims may be.

_**And he will put Tuesti’s safety above all else… even when I won’t be able to do the same.** _


End file.
